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Poetical Favorites 

A SELECTION FROM THE BEST MINOR POEMS 
OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 

FIRST SERIES 
By AsAHEL C. Kendrick 

M 
pxorssson in the cnitbbsitt of bochestbr 



New and Enlarged Edition 



NEW YORK: 

SHELDON & COMPANY, 

No. 8 MURRAY STREET. 
1879. 



'N 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, 

Bt SHELDON & COMPANY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congfess, at Washington. 

I 2. a. ;l £-3 
7 F sfe 




PREFACE. 



oXXo 



The title of this book suggests its purpose. This is 
simply to bring together, in a single, convenient, and 
attractive volume, as miny as possible of those lesser 
poems, secular and sacred, in our language, with which 
the lover of poetry is, or would gladly become, conver- 
sant. Many of the pio^'es are, therefore, the familiar 
household poems of the language ; others, not a few, are 
of rarer occurrence ; and f\ome will greet most readers for 
the first time. That the Editor has come near to exhaust- 
ing the class of pieces to which the volume is dedicated, 
that he has invariably madi:> the best selections, and that 
any lover of poetry will not .niss from them some of his 
favorites, he does not for a mrment flatter himself A work 
of triple the size could scarcely exhaust the treasures of 
this department of our litera ure. The limits of the vol- 
ume have compelled him t<. be exceedingly careful and 
choice in his selections. 

Much pains have been taken to secure accuracy in the 
text. The poems are nearly all given entire, though in a 
few instances some stanzas h'd.</e been dropped, and a few 
extracts of surpassing excellence have been admitted. As 
to the character of the pieces while the Editor could not, 
of course, be responsible foT every sentiment admitted, 
he has felt bound to exclude ilike what was erroneous in 
sentiment or irreverent in spirit. Some otherwise excel- 
lent poems have yielded to the application of this princi- 
ple. The purpose of the took has not seemed to require 



vi PREFACE. 

any very rigid classification of its contents. A little. 
freedom in this respect has been deemed desirable, while 
yet, in the grouping of the pieces, harmony of general 
tone has been studiously consulted. In this second edi- 
tion especially, the Editor has sought to remedy some de- 
fects in the arrangement of the first, as well as by some 
carefully-chosen additions, to bring the book somewhat 
nearer to the desired perfection. He has to add his ac- 
knowledgments for the generous liberality of many of 
the American authors here represented, and especially for 
the kindness of Messrs. Osgood & Co., the enterprising 
publishers of Boston, in allowing a free selection from the 
wide range of works of which they hold the copyrights. 

The Editor, finally, submits his work with cheerful con- 
fidence to the poetry-loving public. Aware that he has 
not fully realized his ideal, he yet knows that most ot the 
contents of this volume have ministered, and will yet min- 
ister, to the instruction and delight of thousands. Poetry 
is a powerful educator. The "vision and the faculty 
divine" are God's rich gift to the few for the culture and 
enjoyment of the many. Pity that the possessors of this 
enviable gift are so rarely sensible of its high responsi- 
bility I But none can contemplate the rich mantle of 
material beauty with which God has clothed the universe, 
or the still richer fountain of beauty that wells up in the 
human soul, and unites in the sacred triad of "the True, 
the Good, and the Beautiful," and then disparage either 
the inspirations of song, or even the humble function of 
him who judiciously aids in their wider diffusion. 

Rochester, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 



The Voiceless, . 

The Songs of Our Fathers, 

The Day is Done, 
-The Splendor Falls, 

Song of the Stars, 

The Cloud, . 

Light and Color, 

To-Night, . 

Night and Death, 

The Northern Lights, 

To the Skylark, 

To the Cuckoo, 

The Two Oceans, . 

The River, 

Flow down, Cold Rivulet, 
.The Ocean, 

The Beautiful River, 

Rhymes of the River, 
-Drifting, 

Roll on, thou Sun, 



Oliver IV. Holmes. 

Mrs. Felicia Heniaiis. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 

. Alfj'cd Tennyson. 

William C. Bryant. 

Percy ByssJie Shelley. 

F. von Schiller. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

J. Blanco While. 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 

. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

jfohn Logan. 

. . Anonymous. 

A nonynwns. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

fohn Augustus Shea. 

. Benjamin F. Taylor. 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

Anonymous. 



Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc, Samuel T. Coleridge. 

The Beacon, . , . P. Af. j'a>/ies. 

The First of March, . . . Horace Smith, 

The Death of the Flowers, William C. Bryant. 



FA6H 
I 

2 

3 

5 

5 

7 

ic 

lo 

II 

12 
12 
l6 

17 
17 
i8 

19 
20 
21 

26 
29 
30 

3-2 

23 
34 



viii CONTENTS. 

She Walks in Beauty, . . . Lord Byron. 2>^ 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid, . Sir Walter Scott. 36 

The Destruction of Sennacherib, . Lord Byron. 37 

Song of the Captive Jews at Babylon, 

Henry Hart Mihnan. 2)^ 

The Parallel, . . . Thomas Moore. 4c 

But Who Shall See ? . . Thomas Moore. 41 

Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition, 

Horace Smith. 42 

— 'Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus, T. K. Hervey. 44 

Cleopatra at Actium, . . T. K. Hervey. 46 

- — -Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Tennyson. 48 

The Lotus-Eaters, . . Alfred Tennyson. 50 

Pericles and Aspasia, . . George Ctoly. 56 

. The Isles of Greece, . . . Lord Byron. 57 

Greece, .... Lord Byron. 60 

Enslaved Greece, . . . L.o)-d Byron. 61 

• The Snows on Parnassus, . . Loj-d Byron. 63 

——Marco Bozzaris, . . Fits-Greene Hallcck. 63 

Ode on a Grecian Urn, . . John Keats. 67 

Mother and Poet, . Elisabeth B. Browning. 68 

Nuremberg, . . Henry W. Longfellow. 72 

• — Bingen on the Rhine, Mrs. Caroline E. Norton. 74 

The Lore-Lei, . . . Heinrich Heine. 77 

How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix, 

Robert Browning. 78 

— Ivry, , . , Thojnas B. Macaulay. 80 

Moncontour. — A Song of the Huguenots, 

Thomas B. Macaulay. 83 

Burial of Sir John Moore, . Charles Wolfe. 84 

Boadicea, . . . William Cowper. 85 

— Lochiel's Warning, . . Thomas Ca7npbell Sd 



CONTENTS. 

Lord UUin's Daughter, . Thomas Campbell. 

The Sands o' Dee, . . Charles Kingsley. 

On the Death of George the Third, Horace Smith. 



Thomas Campbell. 

William Wordsworth. 

Sir William yoties. 

Thomas Moore. 

Thomas Moore. 



Ye Mariners of England, 
The Two Voices, . 
An Ode, 

While History's Muse, 
Oh ! Blame not the Bard, 
The Patriot Bard (charade), 

Witithrop Mackworth Praed. 
The Land of Lands, • . Alfred Tennyson. 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 

Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 
Lines on Leaving Europe, . Nathaniel P. Willis. 
The Old World and the New, . George Berkeley. 
Death-Song of the Oneida Chief, Thomas Campbell. 
Monterey, . . . Charles F. Hoffman. 

The Arsenal at Springfield, Henry W. Longfellow. 
The Battle Autumn (1862), 
How Sleep the Brave ? 



Chillon, 

The Lost Leader, 

Genevieve, 

A Health, 

Ruth, 

My Love, 



John G. Whiitier. 

William Collins. 

Lord Byron. 

. Robert Browning. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 

Edward C. Pinkney. 

Thomas Hood. 

James R. Lowell. 



The Beating of my Heart, Richard Monckton Milnes. 



Lines to an Indian Air, 
To a Carrier-Pigcon, 
Love: — (Songs of Seven), 
The Flower's Name, 
Too late I Stayed, . 



Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

. James G. Percival. 

, Jean Inge low. 

Robert Browning. 

William R. Spencer. 



rAOK 

89 

91 
92 

94 
95 
96 

97 



99 
100 

lOI 

102 
105 
106 
108 
109 
no 

112 
112 

"3 
114 
117 
118 
119 
121 
122 

123 
124 
125 
126 



X CONTENTS. 






rAsi 


As to the distant Moon, . 


Anne C. Lynch. 


127 


Absence, 


Frances Anne Kemble. 


[27 


From the Epipsychidion, 


Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


[28 


• Come into the Garden, Maud, Alfred Tennyson. 


t29 


The Welcome, 


. Thomas Davis. 


[31 


Come to me, Dearest, 


Joseph Brennan. 


133 


A Love Letter, 


Owen Meredith. 


134 


Sonnet, 


Frances Anne Kemble. 


t36 


Lines Written in an Album, 


Lord Byron. 


[36 


Langley Lane, 


Robert Buchanan. 


^37 


A Song of the Camp, 


Bayard Taylor, 


t39 


In Italy, 


Bayard Taylor. 


141 


Zara's Ear-Rings, . . 


Anonymous. 


142 


On the Cliff, 


Edwin Rossiter Johnson. 


'43 


Jamie's on the Stormy Sea, 


Anonymous. 


'45 


Go, Forget Me, 


Charles Wolfe. 


[46 


— Jeanie Morrison. . 


William Motherwell. 


147 


— -Catarina to Camoens, 


Elizabeth B. Browning, i 


50 


Locksley Hall, 


Alfred Tennyson, 


'55 


—Maud MuUer, 


. John G. Whittier. 


[66 


Knight Toggenburg, . 


Schiller. 


[70 


Stanzas, . , , 


Lord Byron. 


173 


——Evelyn Hope, 


Robert Browning. 


[75 


Highland Mary, . 


. Robert Burns. 


\77 


When first I met thee, 


. Thomas Moore. 


'78 


The bridal of Andalla, 


. Aftonymoiis. 


80 


Beauty and the Butterfly, 


Lord Byron. 


t8i 


Two Women, 


Nathaniel P. Willis. 


83 


The Spectre Boat, 


Thomas Campbell. \ 


84 


■ The Bridge of Sighs, . 


Thomas Hood. \ 


85 


Song, 


. Sir Walter Scott. 


89 


Giving in Marriage. —(Songs 


of Seven), Jean Ingelow. \ 


90 



CONTENTS 



My Bird, 

Philip, my King, 

The Children's Hour, . 

Angel Charlie, 

Song of Pitcairn's Island, 

If Thou wert by my side, 

The Soldier's Dream, . 

Stanzas to Augusta, 

The Golden Wedding, 

Farewell to his Wife, 

Watching, 

My Angel Guide, 

Old Folks, 

The Last Leaf, . . 

Bill and Joe, . 

Youth and Age, . 

Life, 

On a Picture of Peel Castle, 

What the End shall be, 

Affliction one Day, . 

Lines on a Skeleton, 

Youth, that pursuest. 

Maidenhood, 



Emily C. Jjidson. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 

Henry IV. Longfellotv. 

. Emily C. yudson. 

. William C. Bryant. 

Bishop Heber. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Lord By r 071. 

. David Gray. 

Lord Byron. 

Emily C. Jiidson. 

Emily C. Jndson. 

. A nojiytnous. 

Oliver W. Holmes. 

Oliver W. Holmes. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 

. Lord Byron. 

'William Wordsworth. 

Anonymous. 

Horace Smith. 

A nonyjnoiis. 

Richard Monckton Milnes. 

, Henry W. Longfello7v. 



She was a Phantom of Delight, William Wordsworth. 
Lucy, , . . William Wordsworth. 

At the Window, . . Richard Real/. 

- Maud and Madge, (A^^ ^ Oi>aMA Nora Perry. 
Time's Changes, . 

. Daughters of Toil, . 



The Convict Ship, 
When from the Heart, 
The Loug-Ago, 



David M. Moir. 

Evangeline M. Johnson. 

Thomas K. Hervey. 

Lord Byron. 

Richard Monckton Milnes, 



XI 

PAOH 

194 
196 
198 
199 

202 

205 

208 
209 

211 
213 
214 
215 
217 
219 
220 
221 
222 
224 
225 
227 
229 
231 

234 
236 
236 



xii CONTENTS. 








PASS 


Sunken Treasures, 


Bayard Taylor. 


238 


Oft, in the Stilly Night, 


. Thomas Moore. 


240 


Among the Beautiful Pictures, 


, . Alice Cary. 


241 


When on my Bed, 


Alfred Tennyson. 


242 


How Many now are Dead to Me, 






John G. C. Brainard. 


243 


Break, Break, Break, 


Alfred Tennyson. 


244 


Too Late, 


. Fitz Hugh Ludlow. 


245 


Longing, 


James R. Lowell. 


246 


Each and All, 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


247 


Oua Cursum Ventus, 


Arthur Hugh Clough. 


249 


Divided, 


Jean Ingelow. 


250 


To-day and To-morrow, 


Gerald Massey. 


254 


The Present, 


. Adelaide A. Procter. 


256 


Is it Come ? 


Frances Brown. 


257 


A Song for the New Year, Edward Rossiter Johnson. 


258 


A Psalm of Life, 


Henry IV. Longfellow. 


260 


Know Thyself, 


Samuel T. Coleridge. 


261 


The Day's Ration, 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


261 


Extract, 


Samuel T. Coleridge. 


262 


Th e Haunted Palace, . 


Edgar A. Poe. 


263 


The Sunken City, . 


Wilhelm Mueller. 


265 


Fancy in Nubibus, 


. Samtiel T. Coleridge. 


266 


On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 






John Keats. 


266 


Imagination, 


Shakespeare. 


267 


Ode, . 


. William Wordsworth. 


268 


The Hermit, 


James Beattie. 


274 


The first Voices of Paradise, 


Hartley Coleridge. 


2:5 


The Bells, 


Edgar A. Poe. 


276 


The Raven, 


Edgar A . Poe. 


279 


My Thirty-sixth Year, 


Lord Byron. 


28J 



ccwy. 


fcyvyib. 


xiu 






PAGB 


-Losses, . 


Frances B? own. 


285 


Going out and Coming in, . 


Isabella Craif^. 


287 


For a Time-piece. 


. Samuel T. Coleridge. 


287 


Weariness, 


Henry IV. Longfellozu. 


288 


Presumption and Despair, Richard Chcnevix Trench. 


289 


Extreme Unction, 


James R. Lowell. 


290 


On Parent Knees, 


Sir William Jones. 


292 


Retribution, 


Longfellow and Lowell. 


293 


My Life is like the Summer Rose, 






Richard Henry Wilde. 


293 


When I do count the Clock, 


Shakespeare. 


294 


The Good Great Man, 


. Samuel T. Coleridge. 


295 


On his Blindness, 


John Milton. 


295 


To Cyriack Skinner, 


John Milton. 


296 


Virtue, . 


George Herbert. 


296 


Lycidas, . . , 


John Milton. 


297 


Henry Kirke White, 


, . Lord Byron. 


302 


Hymn to Adversity, 


Thomas Cray. 


303 


Resignation, 


Henry W. Longfellow. 


304 


My Child, . 


John Pierpont. 


306 


The Alpine Shepherd, 


Maria Lowell. 


308 


Only a Curl, 


Elizabeth B. Browning. 


310 


Spinning of the Shroud, 


Mrs. Ogilvie. 


312 


The Hour of Death, 


Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 


314 


Where is He? . 


. Henry Neele. 


316 


The Death-bed, 


Thomas Hood. 


1^1 



Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, 

Thomas Cray. 317 
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture, 

William Cowper. 322 

Cowper's Grave, . Elizabeth B. Browning. 325 

The Sleep, . . Elizabeth B. Browning. 328 



CONTENTS. 



The Sexion, . 
The Grave, . 

If I had Thought, 
Coronach, 



Park Benjamin. 

y. G. Von Salis. 
. Charles Wolfe. 
S.r Walter Scott. 



Thoughts while making the Grave of a New-born 

Child, . . Nathaniel P. Willis. 



Casa Wappy, 

Auf Wiedersehen ! (Summer), 

Palinode. (Autumn), 

After the Burial, 

The Dead House, 

Fragment, 

An Evening Guest, 

The Passage, 



David AI. Moir. 

yaincs R. Lowell. 

James R. Lowell. 

James R. Lowell. 

James R. Lowell. 

Emily Bronte. 

Dinah Maria Mtilock. 

■ Ludwig Uhland. 



Douglas, Douglas, tender and true, 

Dinah Maria Miclock. 



Footsteps of Angels, 

Heroes, 

The Difference, . 

My Psalm, 

The Three Voices, . 

Messiah, 

.A Christmas Hymn, 
-Ring out, Wild Bells, 

Epiphany, 

The Star of Bethlehem, 

The Crucifixion, 

The Crucifixion, , 

Whence and Whither, 

The Ascension, , 

Gethscmane, 

Pilgrimage, 



Henry W. Longfellow. 

Edna Dean Proctor. 

Evangeline AL Johnson. 

John G. Whittier. 

Anonymous. 

. Alexander Pope. 

Alfred Domniett. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

. Bishop Heber. 

Henry I\irke White. 

Plenry Hart Aiibnan. 

James Alontgomery. 

Francis T. Palgravc. 

Charles Wesley. 

William O. Stoddard. 

. Sir Walter Raleigh. 



PAoa 

330 
331 
332 

zzz 

334 

338 
339 
340 
341 
343 
344 
345 

346 
347 
348 
350 
351 
353 
354 
357 
359 
360 
361 
362 

364 
368 
369 



CONTENTS. 

Litany, . . , Sir Robert Grant. 

The Stranger, . . . ya7nes Montgomery. 

The Seraph throwing off his Disguise, 

Thomas Parnell. 
Christus Consolator, . . Francis T. Palgrai/e. 

•' How amiable are Thy Tabernacles," Henry F. Lyte. 
The Heart's Song, . . Arthur C. Coxe. 

Christ's Call to the Soul, . . Savonarola. 

Consolation, . . . George Crabbe. 

"Christ turned and looked upon Peter," 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



" Looked upon Peter," 
Prayer, . 

Strive, Wait, and Pray, 
Incompleteness, 
The Gifts of God, 
Imperfection of Human Sympathy, 
■We are Growing Old, . 
Watching for Dawn, 
The Return of Youth, . 
Labor and Rest, 

God, .... 
The Soul, 

The spacious Firmament on hi^h, 
Son-dayes, 

The Spiritual Temple, 
Soul and Body, 

The Lord the Good Shepherd, 
O Saviour, whose mercy, 
" Tempted like as we are," 
" Can find out God ?" 
Faith, , 



Samuel M. Waring. 

James Montgomery. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 

George Herbert. 

. John Keble. 

Frances Brown. 

Anonymous. 

. William C. Bryant. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 

PVancis Quarles. 

Sir John Davis. 

Joseph Addison, 

Henry Vanghan. 

S. T. 

■ . Shakespeare. 

James Montgomery. 

Sir Robert Grant. 

Sir Robert Grant. 

Eliza Scudder. 

W. H Hurlbutt. 



XV 

I'AOK 

374 
374 
375 
376 

378 

379 
379 
3S0 

381 
382 

Z^Z 
384 
385 
387 
388 

389 
390 
391 
393 
394 
395 
398 
398 
399 
400 
401 
40.- 



CONTENTS. 



Our Saints, . 
"'Dum vivimus, vivamus," 
Martha, thy Maiden Foot, , 
The Chambered Nautilus, 
Haste not ! Rest not ! 
Bringing our Sheaves with us, 
" It is more Blessed," 
The Teacher Taught, 



yo/in G. Whittier. 

PJiilip Doddridge. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

Oliver IV. Holmes, 

Johann IV. Von Goethe. 

Elizabeth Akers, 

A iionyvions. 

Samttel T. Coleridge. 



" My Times are in Thy Hand," Miss A. S. Waring. 



A Strip of Blue, 

The Closing Scene, 

Ships at Sea, 

O Doubting Heart ! 

Going and Coming, . 

The Future Life, 

Lines written in a Churchyard, 

Shall I fear, O Earth, thy Bosom ? Thomas Davis. 

To the Southern Cross, . . Emily C. Judson. 

Per Pacem ad Lucem, . Adelaide A. Procter. 

" Follow Thou Me," . . Liicy Earcom. 

Enticed, . . William C. Wilkinson. 

The Rose, Edmund Waller and Henry Kirke White. 



. Liicy Larcom. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 

. Robert B. Coffin. 

. Adelaide A. Procter. 

Edward A. Jenks. 

William C. Bryant. 

Herbert Knowles. 



Under the Violets, 
Desiderium, 
Our Baby, 
The River Path, . 
The Golden Street, 
Rest, 

The Cloud, 
The Brooklet, 
The Seas are Quiet, 
-My Ain Co-intree, 



Oliver W. Holmes. 

William C. Wilkinson. 

Phoebe Cary. 

. John G. Whittier. 

William O. Stoddard. 

John Wilson. 

Sir Robert Grant. 

Anonymous. 

. Anonymous. 



PAOB 

404 
404 
406 
407 
408 
409 
410 
411 

413 
416 
418 
419 
420 
421 

423 
424 
425 
426 
427 
429 
430 
432 

433 
434 
436 
437 
438 
439 
440 

441 



CONTENTS. 

Nearer Home, . . . Phcebe Cary. 

The Genius of Death, . . George Croly. 

A Dirge, .... George Croly. 

Time and Eternity, . . Horatius Bonar. 

As Down in the Sunless Retreats, Thomas Moore. 

In View of Death, . . Anonymotis. 

The Soul's Passing, . . Charles H. Hitchings. 

The Dying Christian to his Soul, Alexander Pope. 

Farewell Life, Welcome Life, . Thomas Hood. 

Life's "Good-morning," Anna Lefitia Barbaiild. 



Palms of Glory. 

Heaven, 

Thou art gone to the Grave, 

I know Thou hast Gone, 

My Fr-.end, 

A Year in Heaven, 

A Year m Heaven, 

" A Little. While," 

What then i 

The Lord will come, 

Dies Irae, Translated . 

Dies Irae, *' . . 

Dies Irae, " 



James Montgomery. 

Nancy A. W. Priest. 

Bishop Heber. 

Thomas K. Hervey. 

Phoebe Cary. 

A nonymoiis. 

. Lucy Larcom. 

yane Creivdson. 

Jane Crewdson. 

Bishop Heber. 

Thomas de Celano. 

A. C. Kendrick. 

. Abraham Coles. 



God, 



. Gabriel Romanowitch Dcrzhavin. 



XV n 

PAGB 

443 
443 
444 
446 

447 
448 
448 

451 
452 
452 
453 
454 
455 
455 
457 
458 
46a 
462 
463 
464 
464 
466 
468 
47a 



THE POEMS IN THIS VOLUME, SELECTED FROM WORKS PCliLISHCD 
BT FIELDS, OSaOOD & CO., AUB USED BT TUEIS PEBMISSION 



o 



UR J:^OETICAL TAVORITES. 



The Voiceless. 

WE count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number ? 
A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them ; 
A>las for those who never sing, 
But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story ; 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow ; 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till 1 )eath pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses I 
If singing breath or echoing cord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 

Oliver W. Holmes. 



OUE POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Songs of Our Fathers, 

" Sing aloud 
Old songs, the precious music of the heart." 

SING them upon the sunny hills, 
When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight. 
Sing them along the misty moor. 
Where ancient hunters roved ; 
And swell them through the torrent's roar— 
The songs our fathers loved : 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear, 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered wall ; 
The songs that through our valleys green, 

Sent on from age to age. 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 

The reaper sings them when the vale 

Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 
The woodman, by the starlight pale 

Cheered homeward through the leaves: 
And unto them the glancing oars 

A joyous measure keep. 
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 

Dash back the foaming deep. 

So let it be ! — a light they shed 

O'er each old fount and grove, 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 



THE DA Y IS DONE. 

Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on ; 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer: 
So shall each unforgotten word, 

When far those loved ones roam. 
Call back the heart which once it stirred 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain ; 
The voices of their household band 

Shall sweetly speak again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise. 

Where like the stag they roved; — 
Sing to your sons those melodies. 

The songs your fathers loved. 

Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 



The Bay is Done. 

' I ""HE day is done, and the darkness 
-^ Falls from the wing of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist; 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me. 

That my soul cannot resist ; 



OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling. 
And banish the thoughts of day : 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of time. 

For, like strains of martial music. 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summerj, 
Or tears from the eyelids start j 

Who, through long days of labor. 

And nights devoid of ease. 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice ; 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 



THE SPLENDOR FALLS. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 

And as silently steal away. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



The Splendor Falls. 

THE splendor falls on castle walls, 
And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going; 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love ! they die on yon rich sky ; 

They faint on hill, or field, or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ; set the wild echoes flying ; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Song of the Stars. 

■f T THEN the radiant morn of creation broke, 

' * And the world in the smile of God awoke. 
And the empty realms of darkness and death 
Were moved through the:r depths by hii mighty breath, 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame, 
From the void abyss by myriads came, — 
In the joy of youth as they darted away, 
Through the widening wastes of space to play, 
Their silver voice in chorus rang, 
And this was the song the bright ones sang : 

" Away, away, through the wide, wide sky. 
The fair, blue fields that before us lie, — 
Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole ; 
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

" For the source of glory uncovers his face. 
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space: 
And we drink as we go the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : 
Lo ! yonder the living splendors play ; 
Away, on our joyous path, away ! 

" Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star. 

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 

And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour. 
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ; 
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground. 
With her shadowy cone the night goes round ! 

" Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 



THE CLOUD. 

In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born; 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, Hke us, in motion and hght." 

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 

To weave the dance that measures the years 1 

Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 

To the furthest wall of the firmament, — 

The boundless visible smile of Him, 

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim ! 

William C. Bryant, 



The Cloud. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flovvei'S, 
From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast^ 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

1 sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
III a cavern under is fettered the thunder; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 



3 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As, on the jag of a mountain crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea bene».th. 

Its ardors of rest and of love. 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 



That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer : 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 



THE CLOUD. 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
Are each paved with the moon and these. 



I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch, through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

. I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 

TTie pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air — 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and upbuild it again. 

Peucy Bysshe Shellev 
I* 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Light and Color. 

T IGHT, everlastingly one, dwell above with the One 
-■ — ' Everlasting; 

Color, thou changeful, descend kindly to dwell among men 

F. VON SCHtLLER. 



To Mght. 

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave. 
Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where, all the long and lone daylight. 
Thou vvovest dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
Swift be thy flight ! 



•Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out; 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
Come, long-sought ! 



When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ; 
When night rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to her rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 



NIG HT AND DEATH. if 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
Murmured like a noontide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied, 

" No, not thee !" 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Might and Death. 

MYSTERIOUS Night ! when our first parent knet* 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came ; 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness- lay concealed 

Within thy beams, O Sun ? or who could find, 
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife ?— 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 

J. Blanco White. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



TJie Jforthern Lights. 

To claim the Arctic came the sun 
With banners of the burning zone. 
Unrolled upon their airy spars, 
They froze beneath the light of stars ; 
And there they float, those streamers old, 
Those Northern Lights, forever cold ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



H 



To the SJcylarh. 

AIL to thee, bhthe spirit ! — 
Bird thou never wert, — 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest. 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest, 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale, purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 



THE SKYLARK. 13 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The inoon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ;— 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden, 

In a palace tower. 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 



14 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, — 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fiesh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine. 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant. 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain 1 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 

With thy clear, keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 



THE SKYLARK. 15 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream; 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 



We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 



Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound ; 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground I 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Percy. Bysshe Shelley. 



1 6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 



To the Cuchoo. 

T TAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove 1 
-*- -*- Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, thy most curious voice to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale. 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 

No winter in thy year 1 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee 1 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe. 

Attendants on the Spring. 

John Logan 



THE RIVER. 17 



The Two Oceans. 

' I "WO seas amid the night, 
-■- In the moonshine roll and sparkle, 
Now spread in the silver light. 

Now sadden, and wail, and darkle. 

The one has a billowy motion, 
And from land to land it gleams ; 

The other is sleep's wide ocean, 

And its glimmering waves are dreams. 

The one, with murmur and roar, 
Bears fleets round coast and islet ; 

The other, without a shore, 

Ne'er knew the track of a pilot. 

Anonymous 



The River. 

RIVER ! River ! little River ! 
Bright you sparkle on your way 
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
Through the flowers and foliage glancing. 
Like a Child at play. 

River ! River ! swelling River ! 

On you rush o'er rough and smooth — 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping, 
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping. 

Like impetuous Youth. 

River ! River ! brimming River ! 

Broad, and deep, and j-//7/as Time, 
Seeming still — yet still in motion, 
Tending onward to the ocean, 

Just like Mortal Prime. 



l8 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

River ! River ! rapid River ! 

Swifter now you slip away ; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Through a channel dark and narrow, 

Like life's Closing Day. 

River ! River ! headlong River ! 

Down you dash into the sea ; 

Sea, that line hath never sounded, 

Sea, that voyage hath never rounded. 

Like Eternity ! 

Anonymous. 



Flow down, cold Rivulet. 

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute-wave deliver : 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forevei\ 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet, then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 

And here thine aspen shiver ; 
And here by thee will hum the bee, 

Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 

A thousand moons will quiver : 
But not by thee my steps shall be. 

Forever and forever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE OCEAN. 19 



The Ocean. 

"I IKENESS of heaven I 
■* — ' Agent of power I 
Man is thy victim, 

Shipwrecks thy dower 1 
Spices and jewels 

From valley and sea, 
Armies and banners, 

Are buried in thee ! 

What are the riches 

Of Mexico's mines 
To the wealth that far down 

In thy deep water shines ? 
The proud navies that cover 

The conquering West — 
Thou fling'st them to death 

With one heave of thy breast. 

From the high hills that vizor 

Thy wreck-making shore, — 
When the bride of the mariner 

Shrieks at thy roar, 
When, like lambs in the tempest 

Or mews in the blast, 
O'er thy ridge-broken billows 

The canvas is cast, — 

How humbling to one 

With a heart and a soul, 
To look on thy greatness. 

And list to thy roll ; 
And to think how that heart 

In cold ashes shall be. 
While the voice of eternity 

Rises from thee ! 



2C OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Yes ! where are the cities 

Of Thebes and of Tyre ? — 
Swept from the nations, 

Like sparks from the fire 
The glory of Athens, 

The splendor of Rome, 
Dissolved — and forever — 

Like dew in thy foam I 

But thou art almighty — 

Eternal — sublime — 
Unweakened — unwasted — 

Twin-brother of Time ! 
Fleets, tempests, nor nations 

Thy glory can bow ; 
As the stars first beheld thee, 

Still chainless art thou I 

But hold ! when thy surges 

No longer shall roll, 
And that firmament's length 

Is drawn back like a scroll ; 
Then — then shall the spirit 

That sighs by thee now. 
Be more mighty, more lasting, 

More chainless than thou ! 

John Augustl s Shea. 



The Beautiful River. 

LIKE a foundling in slumber, the summer-day lay 
On the crimsoning threshold of Even, 
And I thought that the glow through the a;«ure-arched way 
Was a glimpse of the coming of Heaven. 



THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER. 21 

There together we sat by the beautiful stream ; 
We had nothing to do but to love and to dream, 

In the days that have gone on before. 
These are not the same days, though they bear the same 
name, 

With the ones I shall welcome no more. 



But it may be that angels are calling them o'er, 

For a Sabbath and summer forever. 
When the years shall forget the Decembers they wore, 

And the shroud shall be woven, no never ! 
In a twilight like that, Jennie June for a bride. 
Oh ! what more of the world could one wish for beside, 

As we gazed on the river unrolled, 
Till we heard, or we fancied its musical tide. 

When it flowed through the gateway of gold ! 



"Jennie June," then I said, "let us linger no more 

On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
Let the boat be unmoored, and be muffled the oar. 

And we'll steal into heaven together. 
If the angel on duty our coming descries. 
You have nothing to do but throw oft' the disguise 

That you wore while you wandered with me. 
And the sentry shall say, ' Welcome back to the skies, 

We long have been waiting for thee.' " 

Oh ! how sweetly she spoke, ere she uttered a word. 

With that blush, partly hers, partly Even's, 
And a tone, like the dream of a song we once heard. 

As she whispered, "This way is not heaven's: 
For the River that runs by the realm of the blest, 
Has no song on its ripple, no star on its breast ; 

Oh ! that river is nothing like this. 
For it glides on in shadow beyond the world's west. 

Till it breaks into beauty and bliss." 



22 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

I am lingering yet, but I linger alone, 

On the banks of the beautiful river ; 
'Tis the twin of that day, but the wave where it shone 

Bears the willow-tree's shadow forever. 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



Rhymes of the River. 

O River far-flowing, 
How broad thou art growing ! 
And the sentinel headlands wait grimly for thee ; 
And Euroclydon urges 
The bold-riding surges 
That in white-crested lines gallop in from the sea ! 

O bright-hearted river, 

With crystalline quiver, 
Like a sword from its scabbard, far-flashing abroad I 

And I think, as I gaze 

On the tremulous blaze, 
That thou surely wert drawn by an angel of God 1 

Through the black heart of night, 

Leaping out to the light, 
Thou art reeking with sunset, and dyed with the dawn ; 

Cleft the emerald sod — 

Cleft the mountains of God — 
And the shadows of roses yet rusted thereon 1 

Where willows are weeping, 

Where shadows are sleeping, 
Where the frown of the mountain lies dark on thy crest; 

Arcturus now shining, 

Arbutus now twining, 
And •' my castles in Spain" gleaming down in thy breast ; 



RHYMES OF THE RIVER. 

Then disastered and dim. 
Swinging sullen and grim, 

Where the old ragged shadows of hovels are shed ; 
Creeping in, creeping out, 
As in dream, or in doubt, 

In the reeds and the rushes slow rocking the dead. 



When all crimson and gold. 
Slowly home to the fold 

Do the fleecy clouds flock to the gateway of even. 
Then, no longer brook-born. 
But a way paved with morn, 

Ay, a bright golden street to the city of Heaven 1 



In the great stony heart 

Of the feverish mart. 
Is the throb of thy pulses pellucid, to-day ; 

By gray mossy ledges, 

By green velvet edges, 
U'here the corn waves its sabre, thou glidest away. 



Broad and brave, deep and strong. 
Thou art lapsing along ; 

And the stars rise and fall in thy turbulent tide, 
As light as the drifted 
White swan's breast is lifted. 

Or a June fleet of lilies at anchor may ride. 



And yet, gallant river, 

On-flashing forever. 
That hast cleft the broad world on thy way to the main, 

I would part from thee here. 

With a smile and a tear. 
And, a Hebrew, read back to thy fountains again. 



23 



24 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Ah, well I remember, 

Ere dying December 
V/ould fall like a snow-flake, and melt on thy breast. 

O'er thy waters so narrow 

The little brown sparrow 
Used to send his low song to his mate on the nest. 



With a silvery skein • 

Wove of snow and of rain, 
Thou didst wander at will through the bud-laden land,- 

AU the air a sweet psalm, 

And the meadow a palm, — 
As a blue vein meanders a liberal hand. 



When the school-master's daughter 

With her hands scooped the water, 
A.nd laughingly proffered the crystal to me. 

Oh there ne'er sparkled up 

A more exquisite cup 
Than the pair of white hands that were brimming with thee J 



And there all together. 

In bright summer weather, 
Did we loiter with thee, along thy green brink ; 

And how silent we grew. 

If the robin came too. 
When he looked up to pray, and then bent down to drink 



Ah, where are the faces. 

From out thy still places. 
That so often smiled back in those soft days of May ? 

As we bent hand in hand, 

Thou didst double the band. 
As idle as daisies — and fleeting as they! 



I 



BHYMES OF THE RIVER. 25 

Like the dawn in the cloud, 

Lay the babe in its shroud. 
And a rose-bud was clasped in its frozen white hand: 

At the mother's last look 

It had opened the book, 
As if sweet-breathing June were abroad in the land ! 



O pure placid river, 

Make music forever 
In the Gardens of Paradise, hard by the throne ! 

For on thy far shore, 

Gently drifted before, 
We may find the lost blossoms that once were our own. 



Ah, beautiful river, 

Flow onward forever ! 
Thou art grander than Avon, and sweeter than Ayr ; 

If a tree has been shaken. 

If a star has been taken. 
In thy bosom we look — ^bud and Pleiad are there 1 

I take up the old words. 

Like the song of dead birds, 
That were breathed when I stood farther off from the sea: 

When I heard not its hymn, 

When the headlands were dim : — 
Shall I ever again weave a rhythm for thee ? 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



j6 our poetical FAVORITES. 



M 



Drifting. 

Y soul to-day 
Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
My winged boat, 
A bird afloat. 
Swims round the purple peaks remote \- 

Round purple peaks 

It sails and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim 

The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim. 

With outstretched hands, 

The gray smoke stands, 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits. 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:— 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 



- DRIFTING. 27 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals. 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild. 

Is Heaven's own child. 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense ; 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines. 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid. 

Or down the walls. 

With tipsy calls. 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child. 
With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

With glowing lips 
Sings as he skips. 
Or gazes at the far-ofif ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one, 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew I 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



ROLL ON, THOU SC/N. 29 



Roll on, thou Sun. 

"OOLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, 

-'-^ Thou giant, rushing through the heaven ! 

Creation's wonder, nature's soul, 

Thy golden wheels by angels driven ! 
The planets die without thy blaze. 

And cherubim, with star-dropt wing, 
Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, 

Thou brightest emblem of their King ! 

Roll, lovely Earth, and still roll on. 

With ocean's azure beauty bound ; 
While one sweet star, the pearly moon, 

Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
And Angels, with delighted eyes, 

Behold thy tints of mount and stream, 
From the high walls of Paradise, 

Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. 

Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling road, 

Forever sweeping round the sun ! 
What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? 

What eye shall see your courses done ? 
Roll in your solemn majesty. 

Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! 
High altars, from which Angels see 

The incense of creation rise! 

Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! 

Ye that through boundless nature roam ; 
Ye monarchs on your flame- wing cars ; 

Tell us in what more glorious dome, — 
What orbs to which your pomps are dim, 

What kingdom but by angels trod, — 
Tell us where swells the eternal hymn 

Around His throne where dwells your God. 

Anonymous. 



30 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc. 

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course? — so long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Aveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form 1 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, — substantial black, — 
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it. 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

O dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 
I worshipped the Invisible alone. 
Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy, — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven, 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest — not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn. 
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
Oh ! struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 



MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC. S t 

Co-herald ! wake, oh wake ! and ufter praise. 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded — and the silence came — 
"Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! — 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
"God !" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer; and let the ice-plains echo, " GOD !" 

" God !" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice. 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, " GOD !" 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements I 
Utter forth "GOD !" and fill the hills with praise ! 



32 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Once more, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peak, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou, 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow-traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — rise, oh ever rise. 
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



The Beacon. 

THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye. 
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 
Looked pure as the Spirit that made it. 

The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed 
On the shadowy wave's playful motion. 

From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed, 
Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast 
Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers; 

The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest. 
And the fisherman sunk to his slumbers. 



THE FIRST OF MARCH. 33 

I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope, 

All hushed was the billow's commotion ; 
And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as Hope, 

That star of life's tremulous ocean. 

The time is long past and the scene is afar ; 

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, 
Will memory often rekindle the star 

That blazed on the breast of the billow. 

And in life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 

And death stills the heart's last emotion, 
O then may the Seraph of mercy arise. 

Like a star on eternity's ocean. 

P. M. James. 



The First of March. 

THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, 
Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic of the vine, 
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower, 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits. 
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. 

How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground, 
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound ; 
How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed. 
And the world's support depends on the shooting of a seed 1 

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day 
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds her sway; 
Go back, thou dove of peace, with myrtle on thy wing. 
Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for 
Spring. 



34 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all 

of flowers, 
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers ; 
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. 

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, 

By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; 

And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their 

wing, 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. 

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, 
And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, 
O thou sunny first of March ! be it dedicate to thee. 

Horace Smith. 



The Death of the Flowers. 

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie 

dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the 

jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy 
day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately 

sprang and stood 
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 35 

Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold November 

rain 
'Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer 

glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty 

stood. 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the 

plague on men. 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, 

glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days 

will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the 

trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late 

he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no 

more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the 

leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

William C. Bryant. 



36 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



She WaUcs in Beauty. 

SHE walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meets in her aspect and her eyes ; 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byrox. 



Hymn of the Rehrew Maid. 

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, 
Out from the land of bondage came. 
Her fathers' God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 
Returned the fiery column's glow. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 37 

Then rose ihe choral hymn of praise, * 

And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 
And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 

With priests' and warriors' voice between. 
No portents now our foes amaze, 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
Our fathers would not know thy ways, 

And thou hast left them to their own. 

B.ut present still, though now unseen, 

When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen, 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh ! when stoops on Judah's path. 

In shade and storm, the frequent night, 
Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams — 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams. 

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 
But thou hast said, " The blood of goat. 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, an humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice." 

Sir Walter Scott. 



The Destruction of Sennacherib. 

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 



38 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on tlie morrow lay withered and strewn. 

For the Angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved — and forever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

Lord Byron. 



Song of the Captive Jews at Bahylon. 

GOD of the thunder ! from whose cloudy seat 
The fiery winds of desolation flow ; 
Father of vengeance ! that with purple feet. 

Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below ; 
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, 
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, 
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, 
Till Thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe. 



THE CAPTIVE JEWS AT BABYLON. 39 

God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign' 
The billows of the proud their rage suppress ; 

Father of mercies ! at one word of thine 
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness; 

And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 

And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, 

And marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
And pillar'd temples rise thy name to bless. 



O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord ; 

The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate ; 
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword ; 

E'en her foes wept to see her fallen state. 
And heaps her ivory palaces became ; 
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame; 
Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame ; 

For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. 



O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall gleam. 

And the sad city lift her crownless head; 
And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam 

Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead. 
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 
On Carmel's side our maidens gather flowers, 
To strew at blushing eve their bridal bowers. 

And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 



Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, 

And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves ; 
With fettered step we left our pleasant land. 

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 
The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep. 
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 
'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, 
Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. 



^o OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; 

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home ; 
He that went forth a tender yearling boy 

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets sh^^U come ; 

And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear ; 

And Harmon's bees their honeyed stores prepare ; 

And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer. 

Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate, 

dome, 

Henry Hart Milman. 



The Parallel. 

Lines written on reading an argament to prove that the Irish were de- 
scended from the Jews. 

"\7ES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling, 

-*- In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart — 
If drinking deep, deep, of the same " cup of trembling,"— 
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 



Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, 
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown ; 

In her streets, in her halls, desolation hath spoken, 
And " while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down." 

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, 
Die far from the home it were life to behold ; 

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, 
Remember the bright things that blessed them of old. 

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, " the forsaken," 
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; 

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, 
Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves 1 



BUT WHO SHALL SEE? 41 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there the morrow, 
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, 

t\'^hen the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and sorrow 
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight. 

When that cup, which for others the proud golden city 
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; 

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, 
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over 
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust. 

And a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover, 
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust. 

Thomas Moore. 



ButWho Shall See? 

BUT who shall see the glorious day 
When, throned on Zion's brow, 
The Lord shall rend that veil away 

Which hides the nations now ? 
When earth no more beneath the fear 

Of his rebuke shall lie ; 
When pain shall cease, and every tear 
Be wiped from every eye. 

Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn 

Beneath the heathen's chain ; 
Thy days of splendor shall return, 

And all be new again. 
The fount of life shall then be quaffed 

In peace, by all who come ; 
And every wind that blows shall waft 

Some long-lost exile home. 

Thomas Moore. 
2* 



42 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Address to the Minnmy at Belzoni's 
Exhibition. 

AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) 
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 
When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 

Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its tune ; 
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground. Mummy, 

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon — 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, 
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name ? 

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 

By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 
Then say what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? 
Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles 
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat. 

Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat; 
Or dofled thine own to let Oueen Dido pass ; 



MUMMY A T BELZONI 'S EXHIBITION. 43 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ; 

For thou vvert dead, and buried, and embalmed/ 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop— if that withered tongue 

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen— 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great deluge still had left it green ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages ? 

Still silent ! incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy .? then keep thy vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself— 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
Since in the world of spirits thou has slumbered— 
What hast thou seen— what strange adventures numbered? 

Since first thy form was in this box extended 

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended— 

New worlds have risen— we have lost old nations ; 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, ' 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread— 
O'crthrew Osiris,' Orus, Apis, Isis; 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 



U OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast. 

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled; 
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? 
What was thy name and station, age and race ? 

Statue of flesh — immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence 1 
Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning. 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost forever ? 
Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue — that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume, 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 

Horace Smith. 



Cleopatra Emharhing on the Cydnus. 

After a Picture by Derby. 

*' The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
Burned on the watcT: the poop was beaten gold: 
Purple the sail; and so perfumed that 
The winds were love-gick with them : t)ie oars wet i Bilver, 
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made 
The water which they beat to follow faster, 
As amorous of their strokes. 

Shakesfeasb. 

FLUTES in the sunny air ! 
And harps in the porphyry halls ! 
And a low deep hum — like a people's prayer — 
With its heart breathed swells and falls 1 



CLEOPATRA ON THE CYDNUS. 

And an echo— like the desert's call, — 

Flung back to the shouting shores ! 
And the river's ripple, heard through all, 

As it plays with the silver oars ! — 
The sky is a gleam of gold ! 

And the amber breezes float, 
Like thoughts to be dreamed of but never told, 

Around the dancing boat ! 

She has stepped on the burning sand 

And the thousand tongues are mute : 
And the Syrian strikes, with a trembling hand. 

The strings of his gilded lute ! 
And the ^thiop's heart throbs loud and high. 

Beneath his white symar ; 
And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye, 

Like the flash of an Eastern star 1 
The gales may not be heard. 

Yet the silken streamers quiver, 
And the vessel shoots — like a bright-plumed bird— 

Away, down the golden river ! 

Away by the lofty mount ! 

And away by the lonely shore I 
And away by the gushing of many a fount— 

Where fountains gush no more ! 
Oh for some warning vision there, 

Some voice that should have spoken 
Of climes to be laid waste and bare, 

And glad young spirits broken I 
Of waters dried away. 

And hope and beauty blasted ! — 
That scenes so fair and hearts so gay 

Should be so early wasted 1 

A dream of other days ! 
That land is a desert now I 



45 



46 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And grief grew up to dim the blaze 

Upon that royal brow ! 
The whirlwind's burning wing hath cast 

Blight on the marble plain, 
And sorrow — like the simoom — past 

O'er Cleopatra's brain ! 
For like her fervid clime that bred 

Its self-consuming fires, 
Her heart — like Indian widows — fed 

Its own funereal pyres ! 
Not such the song her minstrels sing — 

"Live, beauteous, and forever !" 
As the vessel darts, with its purple wing. 

Away down the golden river ! 

Thomas K. Hervey. 



Cleopatra at Actiivm. 



THE banners of the world are met upon that wild blue 
wave, — 
The sun hath risen that shall set upon an empire's grave ; 
From tongues of many a land bursts forth the war-shout to 

the breeze, 
And half the crowns of all the earth are played for on the 
seas 1 

II. 

The ocean hath a tinge of blood, — a sound of woe the air; 
Death swims his pale steed through the flood— oh what doth 

woman there ? 
The shout of nations, in their strife, rings far along the lea, 
And what doth Egypt's dark-eyed queen upon that battle-sea 



CLEOPATRA AT ACTIUM. 47 

III. 

The Cydnus, hath it not the same bright wave and gentle 

flow 
With which it stole to Tarsus, in those happy years ago, 
When music haunted all the shores by which its waters rolled, 
And she came down the river in her galley of the gold ? 

IV. 

Her oars were of the silver then, and to her purple sails, 
And in amid her raven hair, came only perfumed gales ; 
And Cupids trimmed the silken ropes along the cedar spars, 
And she lay like a goddess on her pillow of the stars. 

V. 

Oh, the old city ! and alas ! the young and blessed dream 

That fell into her spirit first upon its silver stream ! 

The wild sweet memories of that morn still o'er her feelings 

float. 
And love has launched this battle-bark that steered that 

golden boat. 

VI. 

And she is yet, to one high heart, through all this cloud of 

war. 
As in that city of the sea, its own and only star — 
The cynosure that, shines as bright, across that place of 

graves. 
As first it rose upon his soul from o'er the Cydnus' waves. 

VII. 

Oh, love, that is so bold to dare, should be more strong to do, 
Or what, oh, what doth Egypt there, with that soft, silken 

crew ? 
And she should have a firmer soul who treads the battle-deck; 
And passion, where it fails to save, is, oh, too sure to wreck. 



48 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

VIII. 

And hers is still the spendthrift heart, that, when a wayward 

girl, 
In passion's hour to pleasure's bowl cast in a priceless peai I ; 
But oh, her wealth of hoarded gems were all too poor to pay 
The one rich pearl, in this wild hour her fears have flunjj 

away t 

IX. 

The princely pearl to whom her brow, though dark, seemed, 

oh, how fair ! 
And crowns were only precious things, when in her raven 

hair; 
Who paid her smiles with diadems, — and bought, at emi)ire's 

cost, 
The love which he must lose to-day, — when all beside is J )st ! 



X. 

She hath risen like a queen ! — a pause — a moment's pause !— 

and now 
One word hath torn the golden badge from off her royal 

brow ! 
The prows are turned to Egypt, and the flying sails unfurled, 
And the western breeze hath borne from him the fortunes of 

the world I 

Thomas K. Hervey. 



Charge of the Light Brigade, 

HALF a league, half a league. 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 49 

"Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns," he said; 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



*' Forward, the Light Brigade 1* 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabering the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Right through the line they broke ! 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke. 

Shattered and sundered. 
3 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Then they rode back, but not, — 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered : 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Carne through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, — 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



The Lotus-Eaters. 



"/^"^OURAGE !" he said, and pointed toward the land; 

^^-' " This mounting wave shall roll us shoieward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon : 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem. 



THE L O TUS-EA TERS. 5 \ 

II. 

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 
And some through wavering lights and shadows broke, 
' Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
From the inner land : far off, three mountain- tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flushed : and, dewed with showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

III. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 

In the red West : through mountain-clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 

A land where all things always seemed the same ! 

And round about the keel, with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 

IV, 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them. 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 
And deep asleep he seemed, yet all awake. 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make 



V. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon, upon the shore ; 



52 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no more;" 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
lb far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 



Choric Song. 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 

Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

Or night-dews on still waters between walls 

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 

Here are cool mosses deep, 

And through the moss the ivies creep. 

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. 

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness ? 

All things have rest : why should we toil alone ? 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease our wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm !" 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 



THE L O TUS-EA TEAS. 

III. 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
' Grows green and broad, and takes no care. 
Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow, 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweetened with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

IV. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life ; ah ! why 

Should life all labor be ? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest and ripen toward the grave, 

In silence ripen, fall, and cease : 

Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease t 

V. 
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 



54 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

To hear each other's whispered speech ; 

Eating the Lotus, day by day, 

To 'vatch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray : 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To tlie influence of mild-minded melancholj'- ; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heaped over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! 

VI. 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 

And dear the last embraces of our wives. 

And their warm tears ; but all hath suffered change ; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold : 

Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes, over-bold, 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle ? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The gods are hard to reconcile : 

'Tis hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. 

Long labor unto aged breath. 

Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

VII. 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 

How sweet (while warm au's lull us, blowing lowly). 

With half-dropt eyelids still, 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 



THE L O TUS-EA TERS. 55 

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 

His waters from the purple hill — 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave through the thick-twined vine — 

To hear the emerald-colored water falling 

Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine ! 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine. 



VIII. 

The Lotus blooms below the barren peak: 

The Lotus blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : 

Through every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust ib 

blown. 
We hate had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in 

the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are burled 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 

curled 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming 

world ; 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps 

and fiery sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centered in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning, though the words are strong ; 



56 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil. 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whispered — do\vn 

in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Pericles and Aspasia. 

THIS was the ruler of the land 
When Athens was the land of fame ; 
This was the light that led the band 

When each was like a living flame ; 
The centre of earth's noblest ring — 
Of more than men the more than king. 



Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
His sovereignty was held or won : 

Feared — but alone as freemen fear. 
Loved — ^but as freemen love alone. 

He waved the sceptre o'er his kind 

By nature's first great title — mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue — 
Then eloquence first flashed below ; 

Full armed to life the portent sprung — 
Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 

And his the sole, the sacred hand 

That shook her aegis o'er the land. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 57 

And throned immortal by his side, 

A woman sits with eye sublime. — 
Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But if their solemn love were crime. 
Pity the beauty and the sage — 
Their crime was in their darkened age. 

He perished, but his wreath was won — 

He perished in his height of fame ; 
Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, 

Yet still she conquered in his name. 
Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 
Her conquest was Posterity ! 

George Croly. 



The Isles of Greece. 

THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung.! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet ; 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo farther west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 

For standing on the Persian's grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 
3 



58 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they ? 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Ev'n as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 



Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but l)lush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopyte ! 



What ! silent still? and silent all? 

Ah no ! — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one, arise — we come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 59 

In vain ! in vain ! strike other chords : 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, — 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these I 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 



The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there perhaps some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 



6o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine I 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 

I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But gazing on each glowing maid. 

My own the burning tear-drop laves. 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 



Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die. 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

Lord Byron. 



Greece. 

YET are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild. 
Sweet are thy groves and verdant are thy fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled ; 
And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields. 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The free-born wanderer of thy mountain air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds; 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, gloiy, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. 

Lord Byron, 



ENSLAVED GREECE. 6i 



Enslaved Greece, 

T TE who hath bent him o'er the dead 

-*- -*- Ere the first day of death is fled, — 

(The first dark day of nothingness. 

The last of danger and distress) — 

Before Decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers ; 

And marked the mild, angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there, 

The fixed, yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek ; 

And — but for that sad, shrouded eye, 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, — 

And but for that chill, changeless brow 

Where cold Obstruction's apathy 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon, — 

Yes, but for these and these alone. 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 

We still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 

So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 

The first, last look by Death revealed ! 

Such is the aspect of this shore : 

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 

We start — for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death 

That parts not quite with parting breath : 

But beauty with that fearful bloom. 

That here which haunts it to the ton/b ; 

Expression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay. 

The farewell beam of Feeling passed away ! 



62 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth I 

Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 

Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave, 

Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave ! 

Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 

That this is all remains of thee ? 

Approach, thou craven, crouching slave I 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 

These waters blue that round you lave, — 

O servile offspring of the free — 

Pronounce — what sea, what shore is this? 

The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 

These scenes, their story not unknown, 

Arise, and make again your own ! 

Snatch from the ashes of your sires 

The embers of their former fires ; 

And he who in the strife expires 

Will add to theirs a name of fear 

That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 

And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 

They too will rather die than shame : 

For Freedom's battle once begun, 

Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 

Though baffled oft, is ever won. 

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 

Attest it many a deathless age ! 

While kings, in dusky darkness hid, 

Have left a nameless pyramid. 

Thy heroes — though the general doom 

Hath swept the column from their tomb, — 

A mightier monument command. 

The mountains of their native land ! 

There points the Muse to stranger's eye 

The graves of those — that cannot die ! 

Lord Byron 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 63 



The Snows on Parnassus. 

ALP felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night; 
Cool was the silent sky though calm. 
And bathed his brow with airy balm. 
Behind, the camp ; before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lcpanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone, 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime : 
It will not melt, like man, to time. 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less formed to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent. 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement. 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled. 
And lingered on the spot where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 

Lord Bvron. 



Marco Bozzaris. 

AT midnight, in his guarded tent. 
The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
Should tremble at his power. 



64 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring ; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

On old Plataea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare. 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
** To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
*' Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land !" 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

His few surviving comrades saw 

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close. 
Calmly as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ! 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke : 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible ! — The tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought— 

Come in her crowning hour — and t.hen 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to pi'isoned men : 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 



56 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind from woods of palm, 
And orange groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume. 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; - 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys — 
And even she who gave thee birth, 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, 
Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's— 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN, 



67 



Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

* I ""HOU still unravished bride of quietness I 
-*• Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time ! 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme ! 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these ? what maidens loath ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? 



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on— 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! 
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal ; yet do not grieve — 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; 

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love I 
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
Forever panting and forever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 
3* 



68 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lovVing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest-branches and the trodden weed ! 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought. 
As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! ^ 

When old age shall this generation waste. 

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

John Keats, 



Mother and Poet. 

(Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861.) 

DEAD ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea I 
Dead ! both my boys ! when you sit at the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

i'et I was a poetess only last year. 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said; 
Uut this woman, this, who is agonized here, 

— The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever instead. 



MOTHER AND POET. 69 

What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! 

What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes,, and a smile at the pain ? 

Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed 
And I proud, by that test. 

What art's for a woman ? to hold on her knees 

Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat 
Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees 

And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ! 
To dream and to doat ! 
* 

To teach them . . It stings there ! I m^de them, indeed, 
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, 

That a country's a thing men should die for at need. 

I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
, The tyrant cast out. 

And when their eye^s flashed . . O my beautiful eyes I . . 

I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not.— But then the surprise 

When one sits quite alone ! — Then one weeps, then one 
kneels ! 

God! how the house feels ! 

At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled 
With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how 

They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona was free !" 
And some one came out of the cheers in the street. 

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.— 
My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, 
While they cheered in the street. 



70 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

I bore it; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 

To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time 

When the first grew immortal, while both of us stniined 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand : "' I was not to faint. — 

One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : 
And 'Viva I'ltalia !' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint !" 

My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was impressed 

It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, 

To live on for the rest." , 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line 

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — Shot. 
Tell his mother. Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother, — not 
"mine," 
No voice says " my mother" again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven. 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? 

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so 
The above and below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray. 

How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, 

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned awajj 
And no last word to say ! 



MOTHER AND POET. 71 

Both boys dead ? but that's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 

'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; 

And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done, 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? 

When the guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short ; — 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 

When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and 
red, 
When you have your country from mountain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And / have my dead), — 

What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low. 
And burn your lights faintly ! il/y country is there. 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: 
My Italy's THERE— with my brave civic pair, 
To disfranchise despair ! 

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength. 
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; 

But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length 
Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, 

And one of them shot in the west by the sea ! 
Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast, 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



72 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



JVureinherg- 

IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow 
lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the 
ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art 

and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks that round 

them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors rough and 

bold 
Had their dwellings in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted in their uncouth 

rhyme. 
That their great, imperial city stretched its hand to every 

clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron 

band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's 

hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art ; 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the 
common mart; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in 

stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy 

dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age 

their trust : 



NUREMBERG. 73 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture 

rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the 

painted air. 

Here, when art was still religion, with a simple reverent 

heart. 
Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand. 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Evtigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies, 
Dead he is not — but departed — for the artist never dies : 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more 

fair. 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed 

its air. 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure 

and dismal lanes. 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic 

strains ; 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly 
guild. 

Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swal- 
lows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle wove he too the mystic 

rhyme. 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's 

chime, 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers 

of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle 

craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and 

laughed. • - • 



74 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard 
white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark 

and care. 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique 

chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded 
tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's 
regard, 

But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, and Hans Sachs, thy cob- 
bler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away. 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his 
careless lay ; 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of ths 

soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



Bingen on the Rhine. 

A SOLDIER of the legion lay dying in Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth 
of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed 

away. 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he plight say 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 75 

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native 

land : 
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of 

mine ; 
For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet aj d 

crowd around, 
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard grou u\. 
That we fought the battle bravely, and, when the day was 

done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sin ; 
And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown ol(] in 

wars, — 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of m^ny 

scars ; 
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn 

decline, — 
And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bmgen on the Rhine, 

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old 

age; 
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and 

wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's 

sword ; 
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used 

to shine. 
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping 

head. 
When the troops come marching home again, with glad and 

gallant tread, 



76 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast 

eye, 
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die ; 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword 

and mine), 
For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine. 

" There's another — not a sister; in the happy days gone by 
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in 

her eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, — 
O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest 

mourning ! 
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, 
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), — 
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — sweet Bingen on ti^e Rhine. 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or seemed to 

hear. 
The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and 

clear ; 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill. 
The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and 

still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with 

friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered 

walk ! 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — 
But we meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the 

Rhine." 

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, — his grasp was 

childish weak, — 
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to 

speak ; 



THE LORE-LEI. 77 

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- 

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! 

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked 

down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses 

strewn ; 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed lo 

shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. 
Mrs. Caroline E. Norton. 



The Lore-Lei. 

I KNOW not whence it rises, 
This thought so full of woe; — 
But a tale of the times departed 
Haunts me — and will not go. 

The air is cool, and it darkens. 
And calmly flows the Rhine ; 

The mountain peaks are sparkling 
In the sunny evening-shine. 

And yonder sits a maiden, 

The fairest of the fair ; 
With gold is her garment glittering, 

And she combs her golden hair. 

With a golden comb she combs it, 
And a wild song singeth she. 

That melts the heart with a wondrous 
And powerful melody. 

The boatman feels his bosom 
With a nameless longing move; 

He sees not the gulfs before him, 
His gaze is lixed above. 



78 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Till over boat and boatman 
The Rhine's deep waters run ; 

And this with her magic singing 
The Lore-Lei hath done ! 
Anonymous Translation. HEINRICH HEINE. 



ILow they brought the good news from 
Ghent to Aix. 

T SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he: 

-*- I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 

" Good speed !" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; 

" Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through. 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other : we kept the great pace — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; 

At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 

At Dlifteld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime— 

So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time !" 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ; 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 79 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur 1 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And " Gallop" gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight !" 

" How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer — 

Clapped mj hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad 01 

good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 



8o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from 

Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 



Ivry. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories 
are! 

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance. 

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant 
land of France ! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 
waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh- 
ters; 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls 
annoy. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of 
war ! 

Hurrah 1 Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre ! 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day. 

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears ! 

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our 
land ; 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 
hand ; 

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empur- 
pled flood, 

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 



And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war. 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 

The king is come to marshal us in all his armor drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallan* 

crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and 

high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to 

wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God save our lord the 

king ! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks 

of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steel, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul- 

verin. 
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain. 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne, 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance ! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in 

rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding 

star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Mayenne hath turned 

his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish count is 

slain ; 



S2 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay 

gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and 

cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 
" Remember Saint Bartholomew !" was passed from man to 

man. 
But out spake gentle Henry — " No Frenchman is my foe : 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren 

go !"— 
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war. 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France 
to-day ; 

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 

A nd the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white — 

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en. 

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lor- 
raine. 

Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the host may know 

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his 
church such woe. 

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest 
point of war. 

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna; ho ! matrons of Lucerne — 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall 

return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- 
men's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be 

bright ; 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to- 
night ! 



MONCONTOUR. 83 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised 

the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the 

brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre ! 

Thomas B. Macaulaw 



MoncontouT.—A Song of the Huguenots, 

OH ! weep for Moncontour ! Oh ! weep for the hour 
When the children of darkness and evil had power ; 
When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod 
On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God ! 

Oh ! weep for Moncontour ! Oh ! weep for the slain, 
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain ! 
Oh ! weep for the living, who linger to bear 
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair ! 

One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers. 
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers , 
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed. 
Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid. 

Alas ! we must leave. thee, dear desolate home. 
To the spearman of Uri, the shavehngs of Rome ; 
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain, 
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine. 

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades. 
To the songs of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids; 
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees. 
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees ! 



84 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Farewell, and forever ! The priest and the slave 
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave ; — 
Our hearths we abandon ; — our lands we resign; 
But, Father, we kneel at no altar but thine ! 

Thomas B. Macaulay. 



Burial of Sir John Moore. 

"^rOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
-^^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried- 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 

The sod with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 

And our lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him ! 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head« 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him I 



BOADICEA. 85 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the bell tolled the hour for retiring, 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him- down. 

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory I 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

Charles Wolfk. 



Boadicea. 

"1 T 7"HEN the British warrior queen, 
• » Bleeding from the Roman rods. 
Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage and full of grief. 

** Princess ! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

" Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt ; — 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

" Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground- 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates 



P6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

*' Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize; 
Harmony the path to fame. 

** Then the progeny that springs 

From the forests of our land, 
Armed with thunder, clad with wings. 

Shall a wider world command, 

*' Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they." 

Such the Bard's prophetic words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire, 
Bending as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow : 

Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

*' Ruffians, pitiless as proud. 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 

Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you." 

William Cowper. 



LochieVs Warning, 

Wizard. 

LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array I 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
A.nd the clans of CuUoden are scattered in fight. 



1 



LOCHIEVS WARNING, 87 

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; 
Woe. woe, to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, O GlenuUin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning — no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep ! but thy teai's cannot number the dead; - 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — 
CuUoden, that reeks with the blood of the brave ! 

LOCHIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer 1 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

Wizard. 

Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn f 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode 
Companioniess, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
O crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee to blast and to burn : 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return I 



88 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

For the blackness ot ashes shall mark where it stood. 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! 

LOCHIEL. 

False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan : 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one. 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 

Wizard. 

— Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal ! 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, CuUoden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight : 

Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! — 

'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; 

CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 

Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 



LORD ULIJN'S DA UGHTER. 89 

His death-bell is tolling : Oh ! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims ! 

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCHIEL. 

— Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale I 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat ! 

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, 

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 

And leaving in battle no blot on his name. 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame ! 

Thomas Campkell. 



Lord TJllin's Daughter. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 

This dark and stormy water?" 
'* O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 

And this Lord Ullin's da ighter. 



90 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 

"And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together; 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ?"^ 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I 'm ready. 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady." 

" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace ; 

The water-wraith was shrieking; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries ; 

" Though tempests round us gather; 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 



THE SANDS O' DEE. 91 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing ; — 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

'* Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water ; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter!" 

'Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell, 



The Sands o' Dee. 

" /^ MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
^-^ And call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home, 

Across the sands o' Dee !" 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam. 

And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand, 

And o'er and o'er the sand, 

And round and round the sand, 

As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land- 

And never home came she. 
4* 



92 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

" Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 

A tress o' golden hair — 

O' drowned maiden's hair — 

Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 

Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 

The cruel, crawling foam, 

The cruel, hungry foam, — 

To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 

Across the sands o' Dee ! 

Charles Kingsley 



Oil the Death of George the TJiird. 

(Written under Windsor Terrace.) 

I SAW him last on this terrace proud, 
Walking in health and gladness, 
Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — 

Blithely the birds were singing ; 
The cymbals replied to the tambourine, 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, 

When not a word was spoken — 
When every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 

To the muffled drum's deep rolling, 
Vhile the minute-gun, with its solemn roar. 
Drowned the death-bell's tolling. 



ON THE DEA TH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 93 

The time — since he walked in his glory thus, 

To the grave till I saw him carried — 
Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 

But to him a night unvaried. 

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, 
And a son's sole child, have perished ; 

And sad was each heart, save only the one 
By which they were fondest cherished : 

For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark. 

And he sat in his age's lateness — 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness : 

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread 

Unvexed by life's commotion. 
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed 

On the calm of a frozen ocean. 

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, 

Though the stream of life kept flowing ; 

When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say: 
The old man's strength is going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge, 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, 

To the people's pity and wonder. 

He is gone at length — he is laid in the dust, 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; — 

For the coffined sleep of the good and just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn ; 

And should sculptured stone be denied him. 
There will his name be found, when in turn 

We lay our heads besice him. 

Horace Smith. 



<>4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Ye Mariners of England. 
I. 

YE Mariners of England ! 
That guard our native seas ; 
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years. 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again, 
To match another foe ! 
And sweep through the deep 
While the stormy winds do blow — 
While the battle rages loud and long. 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

II. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And Ocean was their grave. 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow — 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

III. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks. 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-wave^ 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below, 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow — 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



THE TWO VOICES. 95 

IV. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow - 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbeli- 



The Tiuo Voices. 

Two voires are there ; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains — each a mighty voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice ; 
They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him — but hast vainly striven; 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven. 
Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee? 

William Wordsworth. 



q6 our poetical FA VO RITES. 



An Ode. 

WHAT constitutes a State? 
Not high raised battlement or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No: — Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude — 

Men who their duties know. 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain. 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the cha'n: — 

These constitute a State ; 
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate, 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. 

Such was this Heaven-loved isle. 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 

Since all must life resign. 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave ! 

Sir William Jones. 



WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 97 



While History's Muse. 

"\ ^ THILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping 

* * Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves. 
Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. 

But oh ! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, 

When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, 

She saw History write. 

With a pencil of light 

That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's name. 

" Hail, star of my isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling 

With tears, such as break from her own dewy skies — 
" Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, 
I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. 
For, though heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, 
And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame ; — 
But oh ! there is not 
One dishonoring blot 
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name, 

** Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, 

The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known ; 
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, 

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. 
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood, 
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, 
And, bright o'er the flood 
Of her tears and her blood, 
Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name !" 

Thomas Moore. 



98 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Oh! Blame not the Bard. 

OH ! blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers 
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame ; 
He v/as born for much more, and in happier hours 
His soul might have burned with a holier flame. 
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre. 

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ; 

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, 

Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart ! 

But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by, 

And that spirit is broken which never would bend ; 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh. 

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! 
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray ; 

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; 
And the torch that would light them through dignity's way, 

Must be caught from the pile where their country expires 1 

Then blame not the bard if in pleasure's soft dream 

He should try to forget what he never can heal : 
Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! 
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down 

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored ; 
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown. 

Like the wreath of Harmodius should cover his sword. 

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away. 

Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his songs; 
Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay. 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep. 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains. 

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE PATRIOT BARD. 99 



Tlie Patriot Bard. 

A CHARADE. 

COME from my First — ay, come ! 
The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and thundering drum 

Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy father fought ; 

Fall as thy father fell : 
Thy task is taught ; thy shroud is wrought: 
So forward, and farewell ! 



Toll ye my Second, toll ! 

Fling high the flambeau's light; 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night ! 
The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast. 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, 

So, — take him to his rest ! 



Call ye my Whole, ay, call 

The Lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day ! 
Go, call him by his name ! 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave. 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. 



xoo OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Land of Lands. 

■\70U ask me why, though ill at ease, 
-■- Within this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 
And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose ; 

The land where, girt with friends or foes, 
A man may speak the thing he will : 

A land of settled government, 
A land of just and old renown, 
Where freedom broadens slowly down. 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head ; 
But, by degrees to fullness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 

Opinion, and induce a time 

When single thought is civil crime, 
And individual freedom mute ; 

Though power should make, from land to land. 

The name of Britain trebly great — 

Though every channel of the state 
Should almost choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me fiom the harbor-mouth. 

Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 

And I will see, before I die, 
The Dalms and temples of the South. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS, loi 



Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 

T^HE breaking waves dashed high 
-*- On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed ; 
And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the v.'ild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the "true-hearted, came; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 
The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair. 

Amidst that pilgrim-band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 
There was woman's fcailcss eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine 1 
Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod : 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God ! 

Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 



Lines on Leaving Europe, 

T) RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast ! 
-■--' Fling out your field of azure blue; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast. 

And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! 
Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars I 



The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 

The pressure of the rising breeze, 
And, swiftest of a thousand keels. 

She leaps to the careering seas ! 
O fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, 

In whose white breast I seem to lie, 
How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 

I've seen your semblance in the sky, 
And longed, with breaking heart, to flee 
On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! 

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! 

I turn to watch our foamy track, 
And thoughts with which I first beheld 

Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; 



LINES ON LEA VING EUROPE. 103 

My lips are dry with vague desire, — 

My cheek once more is hot with joy — 
My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! 

Oh, what has changed that traveler-boy ? 
As leaves the ship this dying foam, 
His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home I 

Adieu, O soft and southern shore. 

Where dwelt the stars long missed in heaven — 
Those forms of beauty seen no more, 

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! 
O, still the enamored sun delays. 

And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
To win to his adoring gaze 

Those children of the sky again ! 
Irradiate beauty, such as never 

That light on other earth hath shown, 
Hath made this land her home forever; 

And could I live for this alone — 
Were not my birthright brighter far 

Than such voluptuous slaves' can be — 
Held not the West one glorious star 

New-born and blazing for the free — 
Soared not to heaven our eagle yet — 
Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget I 

Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see 

Your white cUffs on the horizon's rim, 
And though to freer skies I flee. 

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! 
As knows the dove the task you give her. 

When loosed upon a foreign shore — 
As spreads the rain-drop in the river 

In which it may have flowed before — 
To England, over vale and mountain. 

My fancy flew from climes more fair — 
My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 

Kan warm and fast in England's air. 



I04 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night. 

There come new words and warmer tears ! 
On long, long darkness breaks the light — 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! 

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 

He comes to shore who sails with me ! 
The spider knows the roof unriven. 

While swings his web, though lightnings blaze— 
And by a thread still fast on heaven, 

I know my mother lives and prays I 

Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — 

When first our tears will let us see — 
When I can gaze upon thy cheek. 

And thou, with thy dear eyes on me — 
'Twill be a pastime little sad 

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
Upon each other's forms have had — 

For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! 
But there's a change, beloved mother ! 

To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
I come — but with me comes another 

To share the heart once only mine J 
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely. 

One star arose in memory's heaven — 
Thou, who hast watched one treasure only — 

Watered one flower with tears at even — 
Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 

Is darkened to lend light to ours ! 
There are bright flowers of care bereft, 

And hearts — that languish more than flowers ! 
She was their light — their very air — 

Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer 1 
Nathaniel P. Willis. 



THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW. 



The Old World and the JVew. 

THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 
Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time 
Producing subjects worthy fame : 

In happy climes where, from the genial sun 
And virgin earth, such scenes ensue ; 

The force of art by nature seems outdone, 
And fancied beauties by the true : 

In happy climes the seat of innocence, 
Where nature guides and virtue rules ; 

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
The pedantry of courts and schools : 

There shall be sung another golden age, 

The rise of empire and of arts ; 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay, — 
Such as she bred when fresh and young, 

When heavenly flame did animate her clay, 
By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way : 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is his last. 

George BerkeIiEY. 



io6 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



Death-Song of the Oneida Chief. 

" A ND I could weep ;" — the Oneida chief 
■^~*- His descant wildly thus begun : 
"But that 1 may not stain with grief 
The death-song of my father's son. 
Or bow this head in wo ! 
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! 
To-morrow Areouski's breath, 
(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) 
Shall light us to the foe ; 
And we shall share, my Christian boy ! 
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 

By milder genii o'er the deep. 

The spirits of the white man's heaven 

Forbid not thee to weep : 

Nor will the Christian host. 

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 

To see thee, on the battle's eve, 

Lamenting, take a mournful leave 

Of her who loved thee most : 

She was the rainbow to thy sight ! 

Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 

" To-morrow let us do or die ! 
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, 
Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. 
Shall Outalissi roam the world ? 
Seek we thy once-loved home ? 
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : 
Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 
Cold is the hearth within their bowers 1 
And should we thither roam, 
Its echoes, and its empty tread, 
•Would sound like voices from the dead I 



DEATH-SONG OF THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 107 

" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 

Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd \ 

And by my side, in battle true, 

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? 

Ah ! there in desolation cold, 

The desert serpent dwells alone. 

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, 

And stones themselves to ruin grown. 

Like me, are death-like old. 

Then seek we not their camp, — for there 

The silence dwells of my despair ! 

" But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou 
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : 
Even from the land of shadows now 
My father's awful ghost appears 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ! 
He bids my soul for battle thirst ; 
He bids me dry the last, the first, 
The only tears that ever burst 
From Outalissi's soul ; 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief!" 

Thomas Campbell. 



io8 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Monterey. 

WE were not many — we who stood 
Before the iron sleet that day ; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if he but could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot was hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray ; 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shouts at Monterey. 

And on, still on, our column kept. 

Through walls of flame, its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the guns that swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
And, braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play. 
Where orange-boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 
Beside the brave who fell that day ; 

But who of us hath not confessed 

He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 

Charles F. Hoffman 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 109 



The Arsenal at Springfield. 

' I "HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
J- Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and- dreary — 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us. 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song ; 
And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din ; 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant nroises. 
With such accui'sed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power that fills the world with tenor, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ; 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace I" 

Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies ; 

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



The Battle Autumn {1862). 

' I ""HE flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
-^ The charging trumpets blow ; 
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky. 
No earthquake strives below. 

And, calm and patient. Nature keeps 

Her ancient promise well. 
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 

The battle's breath of hell. 



THE BA TTLE A UTUMN. 

And still she walks in golden hours 
Through harvest-happy farms ; 

And still she wears her fruits and flowers 
Like jewels on her arms. 

What mean the gladness of the plain, 

This joy of eve and morn, 
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain, 

And yellow locks of corn ? 

Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 
And hearts with hate are hot : 

But even-paced come round the years. 
And Nature changes not. 

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
With songs our groans of pain ; 

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
The war-field's crimson stain. 

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear 
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm; 

Too near to God for doubt or fear, 
She shares the eternal calm. 

She knows the seed lies safe below 
The fires that blast and burn ; 

For all the tears of blood we sow 
She waits the rich return. 

She sees with clearer eye than ours 
The good of suffering born, — 

The heart that blossoms like her flowers, 
And ripens like her corn. 

Oh, give to us, in times like these. 

The vision of her eyes ; 
And make her fields and fruited trees 

Our golden prophecies ! 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Oh, give to us her finer ear ! 

Above this stormy din 
We, too, would hear the bells of cheer 

Ring Peace and Freedom in ! 

John G. Whittier, 



Koio Sleep the Brave! 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

William Collins 



Chillon. 

T^ TERNAL Spirit of the chainless mind ! 

-L-' Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art ; 
For there thy habitation is the heart, 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when tliy sons to fetters are consigned, 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conqiers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, 



THE LOST LEADER. 1 1 3 

Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

Lord Byron. 



The Lost Leader. 

JUST for a handful of silver he left us ; 
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. 

Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. 

So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
How all our copper had gone foi his service ! 

Rags, — were they purple, his heart had been proud! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their 
graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 



We shall march prospering, — not through his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his hre : 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
Blot out his name then, — record one lost soul more, 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod; 
One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels. 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God 1 
5 



114 OUR POE TIC A L FA I 'OR/ TE5. 

Life's night begins ; let him never come back to us \ 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain ; 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight. 

Never glad, confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him, — strike gallantly, 

Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne ! 

Robert Browning. 



Genevieve. 

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene. 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 



GENEVIEVE. ns 

I played a soft and doleful air ; 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old, rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined — and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
>Jor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend, 
This miserable knight ! 



n6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITESr 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death. 
The Lady of the Land. 

And hov/ she vvept, and clasped his knees J 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ;- - 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay : — 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity 1 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long I 

She wept with pity and delight — 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside— 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 



A HEALTH. 117 

She half inclosed me with her arms ; 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 't was a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samuel T. Coleridgx. 



A Health. 

I FILL this cup to one made up 
Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 
And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 
'T is less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds ; 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they. 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 



1 1 8 OUR FOE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feehngs have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns,- 

The idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain ; 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain : 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon. 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life might be all poetry. 

And weariness a name ! 

Edward C. Pinkney. 



Ruth. 

SHE stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of mom. 
Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born. 
Like red poppies grown with corn< 



MY LOVE. 119 

Round her eyes her tresses fell — 
Which were blackest none could tell; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 

Thomas Hood. 



My Love. 

"\T OT as all other women are 
-*■ ^ Is she that to my soul is dear; 
Her glorious fancies come from far, 
Beneath the silver evening star; 
And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her Oivn, 
Which lesser souls may never know; 

God giveth them to her alone, 

And sweet they are as any tone 

Wherewith the wind may choose to bio* 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 

Although no home were half so fair; 

No simplest duty is forgot ; 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 

That doth not in her sunshine share. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

She doeth little kindnesses 

Which most leave undone, or despise; 
For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 

And though she seem of other birth, 
Round us her heart entwines and clings. 
And patiently she folds her wings 

To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is : God made her so ; 

And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 

That aught were easier than to bless. 



She is most fair, and thereunto 

Her life doth rightly harmonize; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman ; one in whom 

The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath rooUL 
For many blights and many tears. 

I love her with a love as still 

As a broad river's peaceful might. 
Which by high tower and lowly mill 
Goes wandering at its own will. 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



THE BEATING OF MY HEART. \z\ 

And on its full, deep breast serene. 

Like quiet isles, my duties lie; 
It flows around them and between, 
And makes them fresh and fair and green. 

Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James R. Lowell. 



Tke Beating of my Heart. 

I WANDERED by the brook-side, 
I wandered by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow — 

The noisy wheel was still. 
There was no burr of grasshopper. 

No chirp of any bird ; 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree : 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And, as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word ; 
But the beating of my own heail 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, — no, he came not — 

The night came on alone- 
The little stars sat one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek# 

The leaves above were stirred ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



122 OUR POE TICAL -FA VO RITES. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind • 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not speak one word ; 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milni 



Lines to an Indian Air. 

I ARISE from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee. 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? — 
To thy chamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs, they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale's complaint. 
It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art I 

O lift me from the grass I 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 



TO A CARRIER PIGEON. 123 

My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast; 
Oh ! press it close to thine again. 

Where it will break at last. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



To a Carrier Figeon. 

COME hither, thou beautiful rover. 
Thou wanderer of earth and of air, 
That bearest the sighs of the lover. 

And bringest him news of his fair. 
Bend hither thy light-waving pinion, 

And show me the gloss of thy neck : 
Come, perch on my hand, dearest minion. 
And turn up thy bright eye, and peck. 

Here is bread of the brightest and sweetest, 

And here is a sip of red wine ; 
Though thy wing is the lightest and fleetest, 

'Twill be fleeter when nerved by the vine. 
I have written on rose-scented paper. 

With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux; 
I have melted the wax in love's taper, — 

'Tis the color of true heart's sky-blue. 

I have fastened it under thy pinion, 

With a blue ribbon round thy soft neck; 
So go from me, beautiful minion. 

While the pure ether shows not a speck. — 
Like a cloud, in the dim distance fleeting. 

Like an arrow, he hurries away ; 
And farther and farther retreating, 

He is lost in the clear blue of day. 

James G. Percival 



124 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES, 



Love.— [Songs of Sevang 

I LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
*•' Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet n'ghtingale, wait 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near ; 
For my love, he is late ! 



"The skies in the darkness stoop nearei and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit on the tree : 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer; — 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? 
Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to mo. 

" You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep ; 

You glow-worms shine out, and the pathway discover 

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste, 

For the time runs to waste. 

And my love lieth deep — 



" Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, 

I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; 
And all the sweet speech I had fashioned, took flight. 
But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before. 
Be the days dark or bright. 

Jean Ingelow. 



THE FLOWER'S NAME. 125 



The Floiuer's J\^ame. 

HERE'S the garden she walked across, 
Arm in my arm, such a short while since ; 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! 
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 

As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; 
For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel-walk 

She went, while her robe's edge brushed the box ; 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by ! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

But yonder see, where the rock-plants lie ! 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip. 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a name ! Was it love or praise ? 

Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? 
I must learn Spanish one of these days, 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ! 
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground. 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 



126 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not ; 

Stay as you are, and be loved forever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not, 

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while thus it pouts, her.;-fingers wrestle, 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle — 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me ? 
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces. 

Measure my lady's lightest footfall ; 
Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — 

Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

Robert Browning. 



Too Late I Stayed. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime ! 
Unheeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers ! 

And who with clear account remarks 

The ebbings of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks. 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Oh, who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings. 
When birds of Paradise have lent 

Their plumage to his wings ? 

William R. Spencer. 



ABSENCE. 127 



As to the Distant Moon. 

As to the distant moon 
The sea forever turns ; 
As to the polar star 

The earth forever yearns : 
So doth my constant heart 
Beat oft for thine alone, 
And o'er its far-off heaven of dreams 

Thine image high enthrone. 
But ah ! the sea and moon. 

The earth and star meet never ; 
And space as wide, and dark, and high 
Divideth us forever ! 

Anne C. Lynch. 



JhsencG. 

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 
How shall I charm the interval that lowers 

Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense — 
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of casting from me God's great gift of time? 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, 
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 

O, how, or by what means, may I contrive 

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? 

How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 



28 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee. 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told 
While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 

Alt heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. 

I will this dreary blank of absence make 
A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 

More good than I have won since yet I live. 

So may this doomed time build up in me 

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; 

So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
And thy dear thought an influence divine. 

Frances Anne Kemble. 



From the Epipsychidioii. 

THIS isle and house are mine, and I have vowed 
Thee to be lady of the solitude ; 
And I have fitted up some chambers there. 
Looking toward the golden eastern air, 
And level with the living winds, which flow 
Like waves above the living waves below. 
I have sent books and music there, and all 
Those instruments with which high spirits call 
The future from its cradle, and the past 
Out of its grave, and make the present last 
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die. 
Folded within their own eternity. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 129 

Meanwhile, 
We two will rise, and sit, and walk together, 
Under the roof of blue Ionian weather, 
And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend 
With lightest winds to touch their paramour; 
Or linger where the pebble-paven shore, 
Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea, 
Tumbles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 
Possessing and possessed by all that is 
Within that calm circumference of bliss, 
And by each other, till to love and live 
Be one. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



Come into the Garden, Maud. 

COME into the garden, Maud — 
For the black bat, night, has flown ! 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon : 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune — 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



no OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" Forever and ever, mine !" 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood- 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; — 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes — 

To the woody hollows in which we meet, 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 
• One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake — 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 



THE WELCOME, 13 » 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 

Come hither ! the dances are done ; 
In gloss of satin and gUmmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 

To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ! 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near!" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead — 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



The Welcome. 
I. 

COME in the evening, or come in the morning; 
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!' 



132 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

II. 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them I 

Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom ; 

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 

I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 

Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed fai'mer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 
Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. 

III. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ; 

We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; 

We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river. 

Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you — " Love, as unchangeably beaming. 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming ; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

IV. 
So come in the evening, or come in the morning : 
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning : 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. 

And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't sever !'* 

Thomas Davis. 



COME TO ME, DEAREST. 133 



Come to me, Dearest. 

COiME. to me, Dearest, I'm lonely without thee, 
Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; 
Night-time and day-time, in dreams I behold thee ; 
Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. 
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, 
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, 
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin. 
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing. 
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, 
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 

Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom. 
Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; 
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 

Figure that moves like a song through the even, 

Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 

Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, 

Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; . 

Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple, 

Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — • 

Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming 

Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; 
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love. 
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 

1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, 
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; 
I would not die without you at my side, love. 
You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 



134 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; 
Strong, swift, and fond as the words wliich I speak, love. 
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. 
Come, for my heart in your absence is weary — 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary — 
Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, 
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee. 

Joseph Brennan. 



A Love-Letter. 

MY love — my chosen — but not mine ! I send 
My whole heart to thee in these words I write ; 
So let the blotted lines, my soul's sole friend, 
Lie upon thine, and there be blest at night. 

Irene, I have loved you, as men love 

Light, music, odor, beauty, love itself — 

Whatever is apart from and above 

Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf. 

And I had been content, without one thought 
Our guardian angels could have blushed to know, 

So to have lived, and died, demanding naught 
Save living, dying, to have loved you so. 

My wildest wish was vassal to thy will : 

My haughtiest hope a pensioner on thy smile, 

Which did with light my barren being fill. 
As moonlight glorifies some desert isle. 

And so I write to you ; and write a.nd write. 
For the mere sake of writing to you, dear. 

What can I tell you, that you know not ? Night 
Is deepening through the rosy atmosphere, 



I 



A LOVE LETTER. 135 

About the lonely casement of this room, 
Which you have left familiar with the grace 

That grows where you have been. And on the gloom 
I almost fancy I can see your face. 

Perchance I shall not ever see again 

That face. I know that I shall never see 

Its radiant beauty as I saw it then, — 
Save by this lonely lamp of memory — 

With childhood's starry graces lingering yet • 
In the rosy orient of young womanhood ; 

And eyes like woodland violets newly wet ; 
And lips that left their meaning in my blood ! 

Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate, 

By nobly bearing it. So let us trust 
Not to ourselves, but God, and calmly wait 

Love's orient out of darkness and of dust. 

Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet 

Never farewell— if farewell means to fare 
Alone and disunited. Love hath set 

Our days in music, to the self-same air; 

And I shall feel, wherever we may be. 

Even though in absence, and an alien clime, 

The shadow of the sunniness of thee, 

Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time. 

Farewell ! the dawn is rising, and the light 

Is making, in the east, a faint endeavor 
To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good-night ! 

Thine own, and only thine, my love, forever, 

Owen Meredith 



136 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Sonnet. 

"^ ^ 7"HENE'ER I recollect the happy time 

• ' When you and I held converse, dear, together, 
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather, 
Of early blossoms and the fresh year's prime : 
Your memory lives forever in rny mind 
With all the fragrant beauties of the Spring, 
With odorous lime and silver hawthorn twined. 
And many a noon-day woodland wandering. 
There's not a thought of you but brings along 
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky; 
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song, 
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. 
And as I date it still, our love arose 
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. 

Frances Anne Kemble. 



Lines Written in an Album. 

A S o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
•^^ Some name arrests the passer-by, 
So, when thou view'st this page alone. 

Let mine attract thy pensive eye ; 
And when by thee that name is read, 

Perchance, in some succeeding year. 
Reflect on me as on the dead. 

And think my heart is buried here. 

Lord Byron. 



LANGLEY LANE. 137 



Langley Lane. 

TN all the land, range up, range down, 
•^ Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet 
As Langley Lane in London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and street ? 
Little white cottages all in a row, ^ 

Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
And up above, the still blue sky 

Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, 

I seem to be able to see it all. 



For now, in summer, I take my chair, 

And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
The distant murmur of street and square, 

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; 
And Fanny, who lives just over the way. 
Comes running many a time each day, 

With her little hand's touch so warm and kind ; 
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek. 
And the little hve hand seems to stir and speak ; 

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 



Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear; 
And I am older by summers three, — 

Why should we hold each other so dear? 
Because she cannot utter a word. 
Nor hear the music of bee or bird. 

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call I 
Because I never have seen the sky. 
Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 

Yet know she is gazing upon them all ! 



138 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, 

The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, 
And I hear the water-cart go by, 

With its cool splash ! splash ! down the dusty '-qw; 
And the little one close at my side perceives 
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. 

Where birds are chirping in summer shine ; 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — 

And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. 

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young ? 

Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir. 
To wonder how things appear to her, 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 
And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
She is happy to keep God's sight, 

And I am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind, — 

I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; 
And when I sit by my little one, 
And hold her hand and talk in the sun, 

And hear the music that haunts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
And guessing how gentle my voice must be, 

And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, 

(I know the fancy is only vain), 
I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, 

To see little Fanny in Langley Lane ; 



A SONG OF THE CAMP. ^39 

Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend she holds so dear, 

The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — 
It is better to be as we have been — 
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. 

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! 

There is always something sweet to hear — 
Chirping of birds or patter of rain. 

And Fanny, my little one, always near. 
And though I am weakly and can't live long, 
And Fanny my darling is far from strong, 

And though we never can married be, — 
What then ? — since we hold each other so dear, 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear. 

And the pleasure that only one can see ? 

Robert Bltchanan. 



A Song of the Camp. 

' ^~^ IVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, 
^^ The outer trenches guarding. 
When the heated guns of the camp allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under ; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakofif 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 
6 



I40 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

They l;iy along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon ; 
Brave hearts from Severn and from ClydCi 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory ; 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang " Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,- - 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But, as the song grew louder. 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Ramed on the Russian quarters. 

With scream of shot and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory ; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of " Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing; 
The bravest are the tenderest, — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 



IN ITALY. HI 



In Italy. 

DEAR Lillian, all I wished is won ; 
I sit beneath Italia's sun. 
Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver 
Along the banks of Arno's river. 

Through laurel leaves the dim green light 
Falls on my forehead as I write ; 
And the sweet chimes of vesper ringing 
Blend with the contadina's singing. 

Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold; 
The stirring memories of old 
Rise thronging in my haunted vision, 
And wake my spirit's young ambition. 

But as the radiant sunsets close 
Above Val d' Arno's bowers of rose, 
My soul forgets the olden glory, 
And deems our love a dearer story. 

Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime 
The music of the Tuscan rhyme ; 
Thou standest here — the gentle-hearted— 
Amid the shades of bards departed. 

J see before thee fade away 

Their garlands of immortal bay, 

And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances 

To my own dearer heart-romances. 

Sad is the opal glow that fires 
The midnight of the cypress spires; 
And cold the scented wind that closes 
The heart of bright Etruscan roses. 



142 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

The fair Italian dream I chased, 
A single thought of thee effaced; 
For the true land of song and sun 
Lies in the heart that mine hath won. 

Bayard Taylor. 



Zara's Ear-Rings. 

MY ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they've dropped into the 
well, 
And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot tell^ — 
'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daugh- 
ter : — 
The well is deep — far down they lie, beneath the cold blue 

water ; 
To me did Muga give them, when he spake his sad farewell, 
And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls in silver set, 

That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him for- 
get ; 

That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's 
tale, 

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings 
pale. 

When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them 
in the well. 

Oh ! what will Muga think of me ? — I cannot, cannot tell ! 

My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he'll say they should have 

been. 
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, 
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear. 
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; 
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting 

well: — 
Thus will he think — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. 



" ON THE CLIFF. 143 

He'll think when I to market went I loitered by the way ; 
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; 
He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses 

noosed, 
From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl 

unloosed ; 
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, 
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. 

He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same ; 
He'll say I loved, when he was here to whisper of his flame-^ 
But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken. 
And thought no more of Muga, and cired not for his token. 
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings : oh ! luckless, luckless well !— 
For what to say to Muga— alas ! I cannot tell. 

I'll tell the truth to Muga — and I hope he will believe- 
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at 

eve ; 
That, musing on my lover when down the sun was gone, 
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; 
And that my mind was o'er the sea when from my hand 

they fell, 
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the 

well. Anonymous. Spanish. 

Translated by John Gibson Lockhart. 



On the Cliff. 

*' OEE where the crest of the long promontory, 
»^ Decked by October in crimson and brown, 
Lies like the scene of some fairy-land story. 

Over the sands to the deep sloping down. 
See the white mist on the hidden horizon 

Hang like •'.he folds of the curtain of fate ; 
See where yon shadow the green water flies on. 

Cast from a cloud for the conclave too late. 



144 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

" See the small ripples in curving ranks chasing 

Every light breeze running out from the shore, 
Gleeful as children when merrily racing, 

Hands interlocked, o'er a wide meadow floor. 
See round the pier how the tossing wave sparkles. 

Bright as the hope in a love-lighted breast ; 
See the one sail in the sunlight that darkles. 

Laboring home from the land of the west. 

" See the low surf where it restlessly tumbles, 

Swiftly advancing, and then in retreat ; 
See how the tall cliff yields slowly and crumbles, 

Sliding away to the waves at our feet. 
Sure is thy victory, emblem of weakness — 

Certain thine overthrow, ponderous wall ; 
Brittle is sternness, but mighty is meekness — 

O wave that will conquer ! O cliff that must fall !" 



" Ah lady, how deep is the truth of your teaching ! 

All that delights and enthralls you I see ;, 
But little you dream of the meaning far-reaching. 

Yea more than you meant them, your words hav« 
for me. 
Light run my fancies that once were too sober ; 

All the fair land of the future lies spread 
Brightly before me in hues of October ; 

Homeward, full laden, my ship turns her head. 

" Dimly across them falls fate's mystic curtain — 

If but thy fingers could draw it away. 
Making the fanciful turn to the certain, 

Then would the sounds and the sights of to-day 
Ring like the strains of a ballad pathetic. 

Heard when the voice of the singer is dumb ; 
Glow like the great words on pages prophetic, 

Read when the fingers that wrote them are numbi 



JAMIE'S ON THE STORMY SEA. 145 

** Into the depths of thy dreamy eyes peering. 

Watching thy lips for some shadowy sign. 
Trembling in doubt betwixt hoping and fearing. 

Stands my poor soul and appeals unto thine. 
Barren as sea-sand is every ambition — 

Pride proves of clay when its feet are revealed ; 
Only affection brings joy's full fruition — 

O love that will triumph ! O life that must yield !" 
Edwin Rossiter Johnson. 



Jamie 's on the Stormy bea, 

ERE the twilight bat was flitting, 
In the sunset, at her knitting, 
Sang a lonely maiden, sitting 

Underneath the threshold tree ; 
And as daylight died before ut,, 
And the evening star shone o'er us. 
Fitful rose her gentle chorus, — 
"Jamie's on the stormy sea.'' 



Curfew bells remotely ringing. 
Mingled with her sweet voice singing, 
And the last red ray seemed clinging 

Lingeringly to tower and tree ; 
And her evening song ascending, 
With the scene and season blending, 
Ever had the same low ending, — 

"Jamie 's on the stormy sea." 

*'Blow, thou west wind, blandly hover 
Round the bark that bears my lover ; 
Blow, and waft him safely over 
To his own dear home and me ; 



u6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

For when night-winds rend the willow, 
Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow, 
Thinking on the raging billow, — 
Jamie's on the stormy sea." 

How could I but list, but linger 
To the song, and near the singer. 
Sweetly wooing heaven to bring her 

Jamie from the stormy sea ? 
And while yet her voice did name me, 
Forth I sprang — my heart o'ercame me,— 
"Grieve no more, sweet ; I am Jamie, 

Home returned to love and thee." 

Anonymous. 



Go, Forget Me. ' 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 
Go, forget me — and to-morrow 

Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 
Smile — though 1 shall not be near thee 
Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 
May thy soul with pleasure shine, 
Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the sun, thy presence glowing 
Clothes the meanest things in light; 

And when thou, like him, art going. 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 

All things looked so bright about thee. 

That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things wei'e too refined. 



JEAN IE MORRISON. 147 

Go. thou vision, wildly gleaming, 
Softly on my soul that fell ; 

Go, for me no longer beaming 

Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 

Go, and all that once delighted 

Take, and leave me all benighted- 
Glory's burning, generous swell, 
Fancy, and the Poet's shell. 

Charles Wolfe. 



Jeanie Morrison. 



I 



'VE wandered east, I've wandered west 
Through mony a weary way; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine. 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks 0' langsyne. 

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'T was then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time— sad time ! twa bairns at scule. 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart I 
6* 



«48 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed. 

Remembered evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink. 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 

We cleeked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran off to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rins round and round about — 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 

O lichtsome days and lang. 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon ? 



JEAN IE MORRISON. H9 

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. 

The flowers burst round our feet, 
And in the gloamin o' the wood 

The throssil whussHt sweet : 



The throssil whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees — 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune. 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the bum 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me ? 
O, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, fir or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 



ISO OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The luve o' life's young day. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 

William Motherwell. 



Catarina to Camoens. 

OM the door you will not enter, 
I have gazed too long — adieu I 
Hope withdraws her peradventure — 
Death is near me, and not. you / 
Come, O lover! 
Close and cover 
These poor eyes, you called, I ween, 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen " 

When I heard you sing that burden 

In my vernal days and bowers, 
Other praises disregarding 

I but barkened that of yours, — 
Only saying 
In heart-playing, 
" Blessed eyes mine eyes have been. 
If the sweetest His have seen !" 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 151 

But all changes. At this vesper. 

Cold the sun shines down the door ; 
If you stood there would you whisper 
" Love, I love you," as before, — 
Death pervading 
Now, and shading 
Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, 
As the sweetest ever seen ? 



Yes ! I think, were you beside them. 

Near the bed I die upon, — 
Though their beauty you denied them. 
As you stood there looking down. 
You would truly 
Call them duly, 
For the love's sake found therein, — 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 



And '\{ you looked down upon them, 

And if they looked up to you. 
All the light which has foregone them 
Would be gathered back anew ! 
They would truly 
Be as duly 
Love-transformed to beauty's sheen, — 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 



But, ah me ! you only see me 

In your thoughts of loving man, 
Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy 
Through the wavings of my fan, — " 
And unweeting 
Go repeating. 
In your reverie serene, 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 



152 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

While my spirit leans and reaches 

From my body still and pale, 
Fain to hear what tender speech is 
In your love, to help my bale — 
O my poet, 
Come and show it ! 
Come, of latest love, to glean 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 



O my poet, O my prophet, 

When you praised their sweetness so, 
Did you think, in singing of it. 
That it might be near to go ? 
Had you fancies 
From their glances, 
That the grave would quickly screen 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?" 



No reply ! The fountain's warble 
In the court-yard sounds alone : 
As the water to the marble 

So my heart falls, with a moan. 
From love-sighing 
To this dying ! 
Death forerunneth Love, to win 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 



Will you come, when I 'm departed 

Where all sweetnesses are hid — 
Where thy voice, my tender-hearted. 
Will not lift up either lid ? 
Cry, O lover. 
Love is over ! 
Cry beneath the cypress green — 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen I" 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS. ,53 

When the angelus is ringing, 

Near the convent will you walk, 
And recall the choral singing 

Which brought angels down our talk ? 
Spirit-shriven 
I viewed Heaven, 
Till you smiled—" Is earth unclean, 
Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?" 



When beneath the palace-lattice 

You ride slow as you have done, 
And you see a face there — that is 
Not the old familiar one, — 
Will you oftly 
Murmur softly, 
" Here ye watched me morn and e'en. 
Sweetest eyes were ever seen !" 



When the palace-ladies, sitting 

Round your gittern, shall have said, 
" Poet, sing those verses written 
For the lady who is dead," — 
Will you tremble, 
Yet dissemble, — 
Or sing hoarse, with tears between, 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen ?" 



Sweetest eyes ! How sweet in flowings 

The repeated cadence is ! 
Though you sang a hundred poems. 
Still the best one would be this. 
I can hear it 
'Twixt my spirit 
And the earth-noise, intervene — 
** Sweetest eyes were ever seen !" 



J54 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

But the priest waits for the praying, 

And the choir are on their knees,- - 
And the soul must pass away in 

Strains more solemn high than these I 
Miserere 
For the weary — 
Oh, no longer for Catrine, 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen !" 

Keep my riband, take and keep it, — 

I have loosed it from my hair ; 
Feeling, while you overweep it, 
Not alone in your despair, — 
Since with saintly 
Watch, unfaintly. 
Out of Heaven shall o'er you lean 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 

But — but now — yet unremoved 

Up to heaven, they glisten fast : 
You may cast away, Beloved, 
In your future, all my past ; 
Such old phrases 
May be praises 
For some fairer bosom-queen — 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen !" 

Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ? 

Faithless, faithless — praised amiss, 
If a tear be of your showing, 
Dropt for any hope of His 1 
Death hath boldness 
Besides coldness. 
If unworthy tears demean 
*' Sweetest eyes were ever seen.'* 

I will look out to his future — 
I will bless it till it shine : 



LOCKS LEY HALL. ISS 

Should he ever be a suitor 
Unto sweeter eyes than mine, 
Sunshine gild them, 
Angels shield them, 
Whatsoever eyes terrene 
Be the sweetest his have seen ! 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



Locksley Sail. 

COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis 
early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the 
bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews 

call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley 

Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks tiie sandy 

tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to 

rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow 

shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sub- 
lime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time; 



ts6 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it 
closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be. 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 

breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another 

crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts 
of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one 

so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance 

hung. 

And I said, *' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth 

to me; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turned — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of 

sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me 

wrong;" 
Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have 

loved thee long." 



L O CKSLE V HA LL. 15V 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing 

hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords 

with might; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music 

out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses 

ring, 
And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fullness of the 

Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately 

ships. 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips, 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have 

sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than 
mine ! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with 
clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is ; thou art mated with a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag 
thee down. 



(58 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 

He \. ill held thee, when his passion shall have spent its 

novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy — think not they are glazed 

with wine. 
Go to him ; it is thy duty — kiss him : take his hand in 

thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought — 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lightei 
thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with 
my hand ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's dis- 
grace. 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of 

youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's 

rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the 

fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less 

unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife 

was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bittei 

fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the 

root 1 



LOCKSLE V HALL. \ 59 

Never ! though my mortal summers to such length of years 

should come 
As the many-wintered crow that leads the clang' ng rookery 

home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, 
kind ? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she speak and 

move ; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 



Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she 

bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 



Comfort? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth the poet 

sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier 

things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to 

proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 



Like a dog he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the 

wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise 

and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken 

sleep. 
To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wiH 

weep. 



i6o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whispered by the phan- 
tom years, 

And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine 
ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy 

pain, 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest 

again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will 

cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee 

rest — 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's 

breasL 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his 

due : 
Half is thine and half is his — it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's 
heart. 

" They were dangerous guides, the feelings — she herself was 
not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffered" — Perish in thy self-con- 
tempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy wherefore should I care ? 
I must mix myself with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like 

these ? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden 

keys. 



LOCKS LEY HALL. 761 

Every gate is tl. ronged with sviitors, all the markets overflow, 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. 
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid 
vvith sound: — 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor 

feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's 

heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- 
Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my 
life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years 

would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's 

field. 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 

drawn ; 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary 

dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of 
men : — 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 

new ; 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that 

they shall do : 



1 52 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly 
bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a 

ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing 

warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging through the 

thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags 

were furled 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm 

in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through me left 
me dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaun- 
diced eye ; 

Eye to which all order festers, all things here are out 

of joint. 
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to 

point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a -lowly-dying 
fire. 



LOCKS LE V HALL. 1 63 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose 

runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of 

the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful 

joys, 
Though the deep heart of existence beat forever hke a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the 

shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and 

more : 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden 

bieast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of liis 

rest. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle- 
horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their 
scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered 

string ? 
I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight 

a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, 

woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower 

brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched 

with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— 

7 



i64 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some 

retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my lite began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starred; 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy 

skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of 

Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, droops the trailer 
from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited 

tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 

march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake 

mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and 

breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky 

race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall 

run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the 

sun; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 165 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the 

brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books. — 

>Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are 

wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian 
child. 

/ to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 

gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower 

pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun 01 

clime? 
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in 
Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us 

range ; 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves 

of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger 

day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life 

begun — 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh 

the Sun; — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set ; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet 



1 66 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley 

Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree 

fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and 
holt, 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire o» 

snow; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 

Alfred Tennyscn. 



Maud Muller. 

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 



Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast— 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known* 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 



/If A UD MULLER. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing-birds and the humming-bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring loui weather : 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown. 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me I 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

** He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat j 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 



167 



,(^f? OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

" I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. 
And saw Maud MuUer standing still: 

' * A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet ; 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 



MAUD MULLER, 169 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud MuUer's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
** Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and pooi, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And gazing down with a timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 



OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge ! 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : "It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

John G. Whittier, 



Knight Toggenburg. 

'TONIGHT, to love thee like a sister 
A^ Vows this heart to thee ; 
Ask no other, warmer feeling — 

That were pain to me. 
Tranquil would I see thy coming, 

Tranquil see thee go ; 
What that starting tear would tell me, 

I must never know." 



KNIGHT TOGGENBURG. I7i 

He with silent anguish listens, 

Though his heart-strings bleed ; 
Clasps her in his last embraces. 

Springs upon his steed; 
Summons every faithful vassal 

From his Alpine home ; 
Binds the cross upon his bosom, 

Seeks the Holy Tomb. 



There full many a deed of glory 

Wrought the hero's arm ; 
Foremost still his plumage floated 

Where the foemen swarm ; 
Till the Moslem, terror-stricken; 

Quailed before his name ; — 
But the pang that wrings his bosom 

Lives at heart the same. 



One long year he bears his sorrow. 

But no more can bear ; 
Rest he seeks, but finding never, 

Leaves the army there ; 
Sees a ship by Joppa's haven, 

Which, with swelling sail, 
Wafts him where his lady's breathing 

Mingles with the gale. 



At her father's castle-portal 

Hark ! his knock is heard : 
See ! the gloomy gate uncloses 

With the thunder-word : 
*' She thou seek'st is veiled forever, 

Is the bride of heaven ; 
Yester-eve the vows were plighted — 

She to God is given." 
V* 



172 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Then his old ancestral castle 

He forever flees ; 
Battle-steed and trusty weapon 

Never more he sees. 
From the Toggenburg descending 

Forth unknown he glides ; 
For the frame once sheathed in iron 

Now the sackcloth hides. 



There beside that hallowed region 

He hath built his bower, 
Where from out the dusky lindens 

Looked the convent-tower ; 
Waiting from the morning's glimmef 

Till the day was done, 
Tranquil hope in every feature, 

Sat he there alone. 



Gazing upward to the convent. 

Hour on hour he passed ; 
Watching still his lady's lattice 

Till it oped at last ; 
Till that form looked forth so lovely, 

Till the sweet face smiled 
Down into the lonesome valley, 

Peaceful, angel-mild. 



Then he laid him down to slumber, 

Cheered by peaceful dreams. 
Calmly waiting till the morning 

Showed again its beams. 
Thus for days he watched and waited, 

Thus for years he lay, 
Happy if ne saw the lattice 

Open day by day — 



STANZAS. '73 

If that form looked forth so lovely, 

If the sweet face smiled 
Down into the lonesome valley, 

Peaceful, angel-mild. 
There a corse they found him sitting 

Once when day returned, 
Still his pale and placid features 

To the lattice turned. 

F, VON Schiller. 

Anonymous Translation. 



Stanzas. 

Hen 1 quanto minus est cam reliqnis versari quam tui meminigBet 

AND thou art dead, as young and fair 
As aught of mortal birth: 
And form so soft, and charms so rare 

Too soon returned to earth ! 
Though earth received them in her bed. 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 



I will not ask where thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not ; 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love. 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 



174 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Yet did I love thee to the last, 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past. 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou can'st not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine ; 
The sun that shines, the storm that lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have passed away, 
I might have watched through long decay. 

The flower in ripened bloom unmatched 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatched, 

The leaves must drop away. 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering leaf by leaf, 

Than see it plucked to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that followed such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade ; 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last. 

Extinguished, not decayed : 
As stars that shoot along the sky. 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 



EVELYN HOPE. I75 

As once I wept if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed 
To think I was not near, to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly 1 on thy face. 
To fold thee in a fond embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, — 
The loveliest things that still remain. 

Than to remember thee ! 
The all of thee that cannot die 
Through dark and dread eternity, 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught except its living years. 

Lord Byron. 



Evelyn Hope. 

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead 1 
Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little lias yet been changed, I think; 
The shutters are shut — no light may pass. 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 



1 76 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES 

Duties enough and little cares; 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 



Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow-mortals — naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love ; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few ; 
Much is to learn, and much to forget, 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say. 
In the lower earth — in the years long still — 

That body and soul so pure and gay ; 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red- 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 



HIGHLAND MARY. I77 

Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope I 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 



I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep : 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

Robert Browning. 



Highland Mary. 

YE banks, and braes, and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery. 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ! 

For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk ! 

How rich the hawthorn blossom ! 
As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



'78 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



When first I met TJiee. 

"\ ^ /"HEN first I met thee, warm and young, 

* * There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied. 
Still clung with hope the fonder, 
And thought, though false to all beside. 
From me thou could'st not wander. 
But go, deceiver ! go : 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it. 

When every tongue thy follies named, 
I fled the unwelcome story ; 



^ 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. I79 

Or found, in e'en the faults they blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory. 
I still was true, when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart that now thy falsehood rends 
Would then have bled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go — 

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken 
From pleasure's dream, to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

E'en now, though youth its bloom has shed. 

No lights of age adorn thee : 
The few who lov^ed thee once, have fled, 

And they who flatter, scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves. 

No genial ties enwreathe it ; 
The smiling there, like light on graves, 
Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 
Go — go — though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendor ! 

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 

When e'en those ties shall sever ; 
When thou wilt call, with vain regret. 

On her thou'st lost forever ; 
On her who, in thy fortune's fall. 

With smiles had still received thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 
Go — go — 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee ; 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 
Than guilt and shame have made thee. 

Thomas Moore. 



i8o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Bridal of Andalla. 

" TD ^SE up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 
-•-^ down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! 

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing. 

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpets' lordly 
blowing, 

And banners bright from lattice light are waving every- 
where. 

And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats 
proudly in the air. 

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town 1 

"Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face — 
He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace ; 
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadelquiver 
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely 

never. 
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with 

white, 
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. 
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; 
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! 

" What aileth thee, Xarifa — what makes thine eyes look 

down ? 
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town ? 
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the 

truth, 
Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth : 
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go 
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : 
Then rise — Oh ! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; 
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the 

town !" 



THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. i8i 

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, 

Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ; 

But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers 

strove, 
And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa 

wove ; 
One bonny rose-bud she had traced before the noise drew 

nigh— 
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye — 
" No, no !" she sighs, " bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion 

down, 
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town !" 

" Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down — 

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town ? 

Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people 

cry ; 
He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — O, why ?" 
— "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and 

was my lover ? 
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down. 
To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town !" 

Anonymous. Spanish. 

Translated by John Gibson Lockhart 



i82 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Beauty and the Butterfly. 

As rising on its purple wing, 
The insect queen of Eastern spring 
O'er emerald meadows of Cashmere 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower, 
A weary chase and wasted hour ; 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye ; 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright and wing as wild ; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betrayed ; 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace. 
From infant's play or man's caprice. 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought. 
Hath lost its charm from being caught; 
For every touch that wooed its stay, 
Hath brushed its brightest hues away, 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing or bleeding breast. 
Ah, where shall either victim rest ? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before ? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bovver ? 
No, gayer insects fluttering by, 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die ; 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own ; 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



Lord Byron. 



TIVO WOMEN. '^ 



Two Women. 

THE shadows lay along Broadway, 
'Tvvas near the twilight tide, 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride- 
Alone walked she, yet viewlessly 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet. 

And Honor charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair ;— 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true ; 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 

And the rich came not to woo :— 
Ah, honored well are charms to sell, 

If priests the selling do. 

Now, walking there was one more fair- 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail : 
'Twixt want and scorn she walked forlorn, 

And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 

For this world's peace to pray ; 
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 

Her woman's heart gave way !— 
And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 

By man is cursed alway ! wttits 

Nathaniel P. Willis. 



1.84 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

The Spectre Boat. 

A BALLAD. 

T IGHT rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn. 
-^ Who broke her heart and d.ed to hide her blushing 

cheek from scorn. 
One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of 

love; 
Where the flowers sprang thick arcund them, and the birds 

sang sweet above. 

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal 

view, 
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss from love's delicious 

hue: 
What more he dreamt, he told to none ; but, shuddering, 

pale, and dumb. 
Looked out upon the waves like one that knew his hour was 

come. 

'T was now the dead watch of the night — the helm was lashed 
a-lee. 

And the ship rode where Mount -(Etna lights the deep Levan- 
tine sea ; 

When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in 
her shroud. 

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and 
spoke aloud: — 

" Come, traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders 

unforgiven ! 
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace 

with heaven !" 
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her 

call, 
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's 

thrall. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 185 

You may guess the -boldest mariner shrunk launted from the 

sight. 
For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with 

hideous light ; 

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand, 

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew 

from the land. 

Thomas Campbell. 



The Bridge of Sighs. 

" Drowned I Drowned ?"— Hamlet. 

ONE more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath. 
Rashly importunate, 
Goiie to her death I 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinajing like cerements. 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing ! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully 
Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 



1^6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutiful; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 



Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family, 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 



Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb — 
Her fair auburn tresses — 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 



Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 
Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer ons 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 



Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
O ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full. 
Home she had none. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 187 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed — 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 



Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement. 

From garret to basement. 

She stood, with amazement. 

Houseless by night. 



The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 



In she plunged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it — think of it I 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 



l88 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Take her up tenderly — 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair 1 



Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smoothe and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly 1 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity. 
As when, with the daring 
Last look of despairing, 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily. 
Spurred by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity. 
Burning insanity. 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast 1 



Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Thomas Hooix 



SONG. i8g 



Song. 

THE heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head. 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid I 
It will not waken me, Mary ! 

1 may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary ! 

A time will come with feeling fraught I 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary I 
And if returned from conquered foes. 
How blithely will the evening close. 
How sweet the linnet sing repose 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



19° OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 



Giving in Marriage.— {Songs of Seven.) 

To bear, to nurse, to rear, 
To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up hke morning dews. 
To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose :— 
This have I done when God drew near 
Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed. 

And with thy lord depart, 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. 
To hear, to heed, to wed, 

This while thou didst, I smiled ; 
For now it was not God who said, 

" Mother, give ME thy child." 

O fond, O fool and blind, 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would find. 

My soul put by her fears : — 
O fond, O fool and blind : 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind, 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose; 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said. 

Thy face no more she views. 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in nought accuse : 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 

Jean Ingelow 



MV BIRD. iqi 



My Bird. 

ERE last year's moon had left the sky 
A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
And folded, oh ! so lovingly, 
Her tiny wings upon my breast. 

From morn till evening's purple tinge, 
• In winsome helplessness she lies; 
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, 
Shut softly o'er her starry eyes. 

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 

Broad earth owns not a happier nest; 
O God ! thou hast a fountain stirred. 

Whose waters nevermore shall rest. 

This beautiful, mysterious thing, 
This seeming visitant from heaven, 

This bird with the immortal wing, 
To me, to me Thy hand has given. 

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
The blood its crimson hue, from mine* 

This life which I have dared invoke. 
Henceforth is parallel with Thine ! 

A silent awe is in my room, 

I tremble with delicious fear ; 
The future with its light and gloom, 

Time and eternity are here. 

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 

Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer; 
Room for my bird in Paradise, 

And give her angel-plumage there ! 

Eaiily C. Judson. 
8 



ty2 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Philip, 7?^7/ King, 

Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty.' 

LOOK at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip, my King ! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's regal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 

With love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command, 

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Fhilip, my King ! 



Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my King ! 
When those beautiful lips are suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kinJly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair; 

For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my King ! 



I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my King ! 
Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, 
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one God-throned amidst his peers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer 
Let me behold thee in coming years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King — 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 193 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm ! One day, 

Philip, my King ! 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without. 

Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout. 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
'•Philip, the King!" 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 



Tl%e Children' s Hour, 

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 
That is known as the children's hour. 



I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet ; 
The sound of a door that is opened. 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight. 
Descending the broad hall stair. 

Grave Alice, and laughing AUegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence. 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway ; 

A sudden raid from the hall ; 
By three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle-wall. 



»94 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape they surround me. 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine, 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall. 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you into the dungeon, 

In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever — 

Yes, forever and a day ; 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 

And moulder in dust away. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



Angel Charlie 

T T E came — a beauteous vision — 
-*- -*- Then vanished from my sight ; 
His wing one moment cleaving 

The blackness of my night ; 
My glad ear caught its rustle, 

Then, sweeping by, he stole 
The dew-drop that his coming 

Had cherished in my soul. 



ANGEL CHARLIE. 193 

Oh, he had been my solace 

When grief my spirit swayed, 
And on his fragile being 

Had tender hopes been stayed; 
Where thought, where feeling lingered, 

His form was sure to glide, 
And in the lone night-watches 

'Twas ever by my side. 



He came ; but as the blossom 

Its petals closes up. 
And hides them from the tempest 

Within its sheltering cup, 
So he his spirit gathered 

Back to his frightened breast, 
And passed from earth's grim threshold. 

To be the Saviour's guest. 



My boy — ah, me ! the sweetness. 

The anguish of that word ! — 
My boy, when in strange night-dreams 

My slumbering soul is stirred; 
When music floats around me, 

When soft lips touch my brow. 
And whisper gentle greetings. 

Oh, tell me, is it thou ? 



I know by one sweet token 

My Charlie is not dead ; 
One golden clue he left me 

As on his track he sped ; 
Were he some gem or blossom, 

But fashioned for to-day. 
My love would slowly perish 

With his dissolving clay. 



iq6 our poetical FA VO RITES. 

Oh, by this deathless yearning, 

Which is not idly given ; 
By the delicious nearness 

My spirit feels to heaven ; 
By dreams that throng my night-sleep. 

By visions of the day, 
By whispers when I'm erring, 

By promptings when I pray ; — 

I know this life so cherished. 

Which sprang beneath my heart, 
Which formed of my own being 

So beautiful a part ; 
This precious, winsome creature, 

My unfledged, voiceless dove. 
Lifts now a seraph's pinion, 

And warbles lays of love. 

Oh, I would not recall thee. 

My glorious angel-boy ! 
Thou needest not my bosom, 

Rare bird of light and joy ! 
Here dash I down the tear-drops 

Still gathering in my eyes ; 
Blest — oh how blest !— in adding 

A seraph to the skies ! 

Emily C. Judson. 



Song of Pitcaiiiz's Island, 

COME, take our boy, and we will go 
Before our cabin door ; 
The winds shall bring us, as they blow. 
The murmurs of the shore ; 



SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 197 

And we will kiss his young blae eyes, 
And I will sing him, as he lies. 

Songs that were made of yore ; 
I'll sing in his delighted ear 
The island songs thou lov'st to hear. 



And thou, while stammering I repeat. 

Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 
'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet 

Than my own native speech : 
For thou no other tongue didst know. 
When scarcely twenty moons ago. 

Upon Tahiti's beach 
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine 
With many a speaking look and sign. 



I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise 

My eyes, my locks of jet : 
Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze ! 

But thine were fairer yet ! 
I'm glad to see our infant wear 
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair. 

And when my sight is met 
By his soft brow, and blooming cheek, 
I feel a joy I cannot speak. 



Come, talk of Europe's maids with me, 

Whose neck and cheeks, they tell. 
Outshine the beauty of the sea. 

White foam, and crimson shell. 
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress. 
And bind like them each jetty tress, 

A sight to please thee well : 
And for my dusky brow will braid 
A bonnet, like an English maid. 



198 



OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 



Come, for the soft, low sunlight calls ; 

We lose the pleasant hours : 
'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls, 

That seat among the flowers ; 
And I will learn of thee a prayer 
To Him who gave a home so fair, 

A lot so blest as ours — 
The God who gave to thee and me 
This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 

William C. Bryant. 



If Thou ivert hy uzy side. 

IF thou wert by my side, my love, 
How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 



I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind, approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 199 

But when of morn or eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 

My course be onward still ; 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 

Bishop HEr.ER. 



The Soldier's Bream, 

OUR bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered — 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw. 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 
'Twas Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 
«* 



♦.oo OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary and worn \ — 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell, 






Stanzas to Augusta. 

THOUGH the day of my destiny 's over, 
And the star of my fate hath declined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted^ 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 
It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling. 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 201 

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave ; 
Though I feel that my soul is delivered 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me ; 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn— 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'T is of thee that I think — not of them. 



Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake ; 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 

Though slandered, thou never couldst shake. 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly ; 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me. 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun ; 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past which hath perished 

Thus much I at least may recall : — 
It hath taught me that what I most cherished 

Deserved to be dearest of all. 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wild waste there still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

Lord Byron. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Golden Wedding. 

/~\ LOVE, whose patient pilgrim feet 
^-^ Life's longest path have trod ; 
Whose ministry hath symboled sweet 

The dearer love of God ; 
The sacred myrtle wreathes again 

Thine altar, as of old; 
And what was green with summer then, 

Is mellowed now to gold. 

Not now, as then, the future's face 

Is flushed with fancy's light ; 
But memory, with a milder grace, 

Shall rule the feast to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone, 

Nor less the blinding shower ; 
The bud of fifty years agone 

Is love's perfected flower. 

O memory, ope thy mystic door; 

O dream of youth, return ; 
And let the light that gleamed of yore 

Beside this altar burn. 
The past is plain ; 'twas love designed 

E'en sorrow's iron chain ; 
And mercy's shining thread has twined 

With the dark warp of pain. 

So be it still. O Thou who hast 

That younger bridal blest. 
Till the May-morn of love has passed 

To evening's golden west ; 
Come to this later Cana, Lord, 

And, at thy touch divine. 
The water of that earlier board 

To-night shall turn to wine. 

David Gray. 



FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 203 



Farewell to his Wife. 

FARE thee well ! and if forever, 
Still forever, fare thee well ; 
Even though unforgiving, never 
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again. 

Would that breast by thee glanced over 
Every inmost thought could show. 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee- 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

E'en its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me. 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not : 
Love may sink by slow decay ; 

But, by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 



^o4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widowed bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee. 
When her lip to thine is pressed, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee. 
Think of him thy love had blessed ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults, perchance, thou knowest, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest, — 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 

E'en my soul forsakes me now. 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

Yet the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie. 
Seared in heart, and lone,and blighted. 

More than this I scarce can die ! 

Lord Byron. 



WA TCHING. 205 



Watching. 

SLEEP, love, sleep ! 
The dusty day is done, 
j-o ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep 
Wide over groves of balm, 
^own from the towering palm, 
In at the open casement cooling run. 
And round thy lowly bed, 
Thy bed of pain, 
Bathing thy patient head, 
Like grateful showers of rain, 
They come ; 

While the white curtains, waving to and fro. 
Fan the sick air ; 

And pityingly the shadows come and go, 
With gentle human care, 
Compassionate and dumb. 

The dusty day is done. 

The night begun ; 

While prayerful watch I keep, 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

Is there no magic in the touch 

Of fingers thou dost love so much ? 

Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now ; 

Or, with its mute caress. 

The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press 

Upon thy weary lid and aching brow; 

While prayerful watch I keep, 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

On the pagoda spire 

The bells are swinging, 

Their little golden circlet in a flutter 

With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter. 



io6 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Till all are ringing, 

As if a choir 

Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; 

And with a lulling sound 

The music floats around, 

And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ; 

Commingling with the hum 

Of the Sepoy's distant drum, 

And lazy beetle ever droning near. 

Sounds these of deepest silence born, 

Like night made visible by morn ; 

So silent that I sometimes start 

To hear the throbbings of my heart. 

And watch, with shivering sense of pain, 

To see thy pale lids lift again. 

The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes. 

Peeps from the mortise in surprise 

At such strange quiet after day's harsh din; 

Then boldly ventures out, 

And looks about. 

And with his hollow feet 

Treads his small evening beat, 

Darting upon his prey 

In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, 

His delicate marauding seems no sin. 

And still the curtains swing, 

But noiselessly; 

The bells a melancholy murmur ring. 

As tears were in the sky : 

More heavily the shadows fall, 

Like the black foldings of a pall. 

Where juts the rough beam from the wall; 

The candles flare 

With fresher gusts of air; 

The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; 

Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. 

Emily C. Judson, 



MY ANGEL GUIDE. 207 



My Angel Guide. 

I GAZED down life's dim labyrinth, 
A wilder in g maze to see, 
Crossed o'er by many a tangled clue, 

And wild as wild could be ; 
And as I gazed in doubt and drccid. 
An angel came to me. 

I knew him for a heavenly guide, 

I knew him even then, 
Though meekly as a child he stood 

Among the sons of men ; 
By his deep spirit loveliness 

I knew him even then. 

And as I leaned my weary head 

Upon his proffered breast. 
And scanned the peril-haunted wild 

From out my place of rest, 
I wondered if the shining ones 

Of Eden were more blest. 

For there was light within my soul, 

Light on my peaceful way ; 
And all around the blue above 

The clustering starlight lay ; 
And easterly I saw upreared 

The pearly gates of day. 

So, hand in hand we trod the wild, 

My angel-love and I— 
His lifted wing all quivering 

With tokens from the sky — 
Strange, my dull thought could not divine 

'Twas lifted— but to fly I 



2o8 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Again down life's dim labyrinth 

I grope my way alone, 
While wildly through the midnight sky 

Black hurrying clouds are blown, 
And thickly, in my tangled path, 

The sharp, bare thorns are sown. 

Yet firm my foot, for well I know 

The goal cannot be far ; 
And ever through the rifted clouds 

Shines out one steady star; 
For when my guide went up he left 

The pearly gates ajar. 

Emil\ C Judson 



Old Folks. 

A H ! don't be sorrowful, darling, 
■^*- And don't be sorrowful, pray ; 
Taking the year together, my dear. 
There isn't more night than day. 

'Tis rainy weather, my darling, 

Time's waves, they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, my dear 

There isn't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling, 
Our hearts, they are growing gray ; 

But taking the year all round, my dear, 
You will always find the May. 

We have had our May, my darling. 

And our roses long ago ; 
And the time of the year is coming, my dear, 

For the silent night and the snow 



THE LAST LEAF. 

And God is God, my darling, 

Of night as well as of day ; 
And we feel and know that we can go 

Wherever He leads the way. 

Ay ! God of the night, my darling, 
Of the night of death so grim ; 

The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 
Is the gate that leads to Him. 

Anonymous. 



The Last Leaf. 

I SAW him once before. 
As he passed by the door, 
And again 
The pavement stones resound. 
As he totters o'er the ground 
With his cane. 



They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down. 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 



But now he walks the streets. 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the hps that he has pressed 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmama has said — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff. 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a. sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here : 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that. 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring — 
Let them smile, as I do now. 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver W. Holmes. 



BILL AND JOE. 21 1 



Bill and Joe. 

C^OME, dear old comrade, you and I 
^ Will steal an hour from days gone by ; 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew,— 
The lusty days of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow-tail ; 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare : 
To-day, O friend, remember still 
That I am Joe, and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 
And grand you look in people's eyes, 
With H.O.N, and L.L.D., 
In big, brave letters, fair to see, — 
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 
How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You've won the judge's ermined robe. 
You've taught your name to half the globe; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You've made the dead past live again : 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare, and say, 

'* See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 

They talk like fellows in their teens ! 

Mad, poor old boys ! That's what it means,"- 

And sliake their heads : they little know 

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe ! 



212 OUR POE TICAL FA I 'O RITES. 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame : 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show ! 

Till all at once his pulses thrill : — 

'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill !" 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears. 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none too long, 
Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill and that was Joe? 

No matter: while our home is here. 
No sounding name is half so dear : 
When fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hicjacet Joe. Hicjacet Bill. 

Olher W. Holmes. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 213 



Youth and v^ge. 

\ / ERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 

* Where hope clung feeding like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-Maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young? — Ah, woful when. 
Ah ! for the change 'tvvixt Now and Then 1 
.This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands 
How lightly then it flashed along: 
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Naught cared this body for wind or weather. 
When Youth and I lived in it together, 

Flowers are lovely : Love is flower-like ; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O ! the joys that came down shower-like, 

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
Ere I was old ! 

Ere I was old ? Ah, woful ere, 
Which tells me Youth's no longer here J 
O youth ! for years so many and sweet 
'Tis known that The u and I were one ; 
I'll think it but a fond con ;eit — 
It cannot be that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled : 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that thou art gone r 



«I4 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

I see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size: 
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That youth and I are housemates still. 

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old : 
— That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismissed, 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome-while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



Life. 

"DETWEEN two worlds life hovers, like a star 
■^-^ 'Twixt night and morn upon the horizon's verge i 
How little do we know that which we are ! 
How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge. 
Lashed from the foam of ages ; while the graves 
Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 

Lord Byron. 



PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE IN A STORM. 215 

On a Picture of Peel Castle in a Storin. 

(Painted by Sir George Beaumont.) 

T WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 
-*- Four summer-weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 

So like, so very like was day to day ! 
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; 

It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no sleep, 
No mood which season takes away or brings : 

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw, and add the gleam, 

The light that never was oh sea or land, 
The consecration, and the poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 

Beside a sea that could not cease to smile. 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 

Elysian quiet without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. 

Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 

Such picture would I at that time have made ; 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 



2i6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

So once it would have been ; — 'tis so no more ; 

I have submitted to a new control ; 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 

A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 

A smiling sea, and be what I have been; 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the friendj 

If he had lived, of him whom 1 deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

O 'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, 

Well chosen is the spirit that is here : 
That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, 

This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge castle, standing here sublime, 
I love to see the look with which it braves 

— Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time — 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone. 
Housed in a dream at distance from the kind ! 

Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne, 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here :^- 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 

William Wordsworth 



WHAT THE END SHALL BE, 217 



What the End shall he, 

"X TC THEN another life is added 

^ ' To the heaving, turbid mass ; 
When another breath of being 

Stains creation's tarnished glass ; 
When the first cry, weak and piteous, 

Heralds long-enduring pain, 
And a soul from non-existence 

Springs, that ne'er can die again ; 
When the mother's passionate welcome. 

Sorrow-like, bursts forth in tears. 
And a sire's self-gratulation 
Prophesies of future years, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When across the infant features 

Trembles the faint dawn of mind, 
And the heart looks from the windows 

Of the eyes that were so blind ; 
When the inarticulate murmurs 

Syllable each swaddled thought, 
To the fond ear of affection 

With a boundless promise fraught ; 
Kindling great hopes for to-morrow 

From that dull, uncertain ray, 
As by glimmering of the twilight 

Is foreshown the perfect day, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

When the boy, upon the threshold 

Of his all-comprising home, 
Puts aside the arm maternal 

That enlocks him ere he roam ; 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

When the canvas of his vessel 

Flutters to the favoring gale, 
Years of solitary exile 

Hid behind the sunny sail : 
When his pulses beat with ardoi, 

And his sinews stretch for toil. 
And a hundred bold emprises 

Lure him to that eastern soil, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 



When the youth beside the maiden 

Looks into her credulous eyes, 
And the heart upon the surface 

Shines too happy to be wise ; 
He by speeches less than gestures 

Hinteth what her hopes expound, 
Laying out the waste hereafter 

Like enchanted garden-ground ; 
He may falter — so do many ; 

She may suffer — so must all : 
Both may yet, world-disappointed. 

This lost hour of love recall, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 



When the altar of religion 

Greets the expectant bridal pair. 
And the vow that lasts till dying 

Vibrates on the sacred air ; 
W^hen man's lavish protestations 

Doubts of after-change defy, 
Comforting the frailer spirit 

Bound his servitor for aye ; 
When beneath love's silver moonbeams 

Many rocks in shadow sleep, 



AFFLICTION ONE DAY. 219 

Undiscovered, till possession 

Shows the danger of the deep, — 

It is well we cannot see 
"What the end shall be. 

Whatsoever is beginning, 

That is wrought by human skill ; 
Every daring emanation 

Of the mind's ambitious will : 
Every first impulse of passion, 

Gush of love or twinge of hate; 
Every launch upon the waters 

Wide-horizoned by our fate ; 
Every venture in the chances 

Of life's sad, oft desperate game, 
Whatsoever be our motive. 

Whatsoever be our aim, — 

It is well we cannot see 
What the end shall be. 

Anonymous. 



Affliction one Day. 

AFFLICTION one day, as she harked to the roar 
Of the stormy and struggling billow, 
Drew a beautiful form on the sands of the shore 

With the stem of a weeping willow. 
Jupiter, struck with the noble plan. 

As he roamed on the marge of the ocean, 
Breathed on the figure,and, calling it man, 
Endowed it with life and with motion. 

A creature so wondrous in mind and in frame, 
So endowed with each parent's expression. 

Among them a point of contention became, 
Each claiming the right of possession. 



OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

He is mine, said Affliction, I gave him his birth, 

I alone am his cause of creation : 
The material was furnished by me, answered Earth, 

I gave him, said Jove, animation. 

So the Gods, all assembled in solemn divan 

To list to each claimant's petition, 
Pronounced their definitive sentence on man, 

And thus settled his fate's disposition : 
Let Affliction possess her own child till the woes 

Of life cease to harass and goad it, 
Then his body return to the earth whence it rose. 

And his spirit to Jove who bestowed it. 

Horace Smith. 



Lines on a Skeleton. 

BEHOLD this ruin ! 't is a skull. 
Once of ethereal spirit full ! 
This narrow cell was life's retreat. 
This space was thought's mysterious seat. 
What beauteous pictures filled this spot — 
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot ! 
Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, 
Has left one trace of record here ! 



Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye : 

Yet start not at that dismal void ; 

If social love that eye employed. 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dew of kindness beamed. 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns have lost their light. 



YOUTH, THAT PURSUEST. 221 

Here, in this silent cavern, hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue : 

If falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And, when it could not praise, was chained; 

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. 

Yet gentle concord never broke. 

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 

When death unveils eternity ! 

•Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with its envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
Can nothing now avail to them : 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
And comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth or fame I 



Avails it whether bare or shod 
Those feet the paths of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of joy they sped 
To soothe affliction's humble bed ; 
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to virtue's lap returned. 
Those feet with angel wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky ! 

Anonymous. 



Youth, that Picrsuest. 

YOUTH, that pursuest, with such crger pace, 
Thy even way. 
Thou pantest on to win a mournful race ; 
Then stay ! oh stay ! 
9 



OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Pause and luxuriate on thy sunny plain ; 

Loiter — enjoy ; 
Once past, thou never wilt come back again, 

A second boy. 

The hills of manhood wear a noble face 

When seen from far ; 
The mist of light from which they take their grac 

Hides what they are. 

The dark and weary path those cliffs between 

Thou canst not know ; 
And how it leads to regions never green, 

Dead fields of snow. 

Pause while thou may'st, nor deem that fate thy gain, 

Which, all too fast. 
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain, 

A man at last. 

Richard Monckton Milnes. 



Maidenhood, 

MAIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes. 
In whose orbs a shadow lies, 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses wreathed in one. 
As the braided streamlets run 1 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse ! 



MAIDENHOOD. 223 

Deep and still that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision, 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye. 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hear'st thou voices on the shore 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands — life hath snares; 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June ! 

Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered- 

Gather then each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



224 OUR POETICAL FA VCRITES. 

O that dew like balm shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal. 
E'en as sleep our eyes doth seal: 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 

Henry W. Longfellow, 






She was a Phantom of Delight, 

SHE was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament. 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn — 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too \ 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food — 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveler between life and death : 



LUCY. 



225 



The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

William Wordsworth. 



Lucy. 

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye ! — 

Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 

The difference to me ! 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain. 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 



2-6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

*' The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 

Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 



" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place, 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 



" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give. 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

William Wordsworth. 



AT THE WINDOW. 



At the Window. 

THE lady she sits at her window ; 
I sit at my window and look, 
And my fancies flock gladly toward her, 
As young swans flock forth to a brook, 
And I catch from her bright face the pleasure 
I draw from an affluent book. 

I scarce know the name of the lady, 

She never has spoken to me ; 
But I know, by infallible symbols. 

That whatever her history be. 
Her soul is as brave as the mountains— 

Her heart is as deep as the sea. 

Sometimes her white fingers fly deftly 
All day with the needle and thread ; 

And sometimes o'er lark-throated poems 
She droopeth her beautiful head ; 

And sometimes she waits on the people 
Whose custom assureth her bread. 

For she is but a clerk, is this lady ; 

A salaried clerk in a store, 
With the blessing of labor upon her : 

(Not curse, as was written of yore.) 
And— judged by the palpable outward— 

I should hazard the guess she was poor. 

But of comforts, and riches, and splendors. 

Which silver and gold cannot buy ; 
The things which make royal the forehead, 

Which set a delight in the eye. 
And crown us with glories and lustres 

As the stars of the Lord crown the sky— 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Of these — the deep spiritual graces 

Which give unto life its divine, 
Transform with miraculous touches 

The water of being to wine, 
And quicken the sap of the human 

Till the drear places blossom and shine- 
She has crystalline caskets and coffers, 

With broad open lips to receive 
The silent ineffable helpings 

God's angels are gladdened to give, 
Beyond half the diademed princes, 

And millionaired monarchs who live. 

And something about her most subtly 

Reminds me of daisies and birds : 
Of smells of mown hay in the meadows. 

Of sweet tunes to beautiful words ; 
And of one who clung close to my bosom. 

Before she was clasped to the Lord's. 

Thus being so minded and bettered, 
Because of the claims she has brought; 

The rest to my trouble of spirit. 

The peace to the ache in my thought, 

And the cooing of doves in the passions 
Where devils have wrestled and wrought. 

All paths which the lady may travel 

My blessings shall conquer; that so 
No roughness may bruise her, no waters 

Be bitter or brackish with woe, 
While the blue heavens brood softly above her, 

And the grass groweth greenly below. 

Richard Realf. 



MAUD AND MADGE. 229 



Maud and Madge 

' I ^HEY sat and combed their beautif il hair, 
-■- Their long bright tresses, one by one. 
As they laughed and talked in their chamber there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, 

Idly they laughed like other girls, 
Who over the fire, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls : 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace. 

Knots of flowers, and ribbons, too, 
Scattered about in every place, 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white. 

The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night. 
For the revel is done : — 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
And the little bare feet are cold : 

"Then out of the gathering winter chill. 

All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is stj'U, 

Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white. 

The prettiest night-gowns under the sun. 
Curtained away from the chilly night. 
After the revel is done, 
9* 



230 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES, 

Float along in a splendid dream, 

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 
While a thousand lusters shimmering stream 
In a palace's grand saloon, 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
Tropical odors sweeter than musk. 
Men and women with beautiful faces, 
And eyes of tropical dusk. 

And one face shining out like a star. 

One face haunting the dreams of each, 
And one voice, sweeter than others are, 
Breaking in silvery speech ; 

Telling through lips of bearded bloom 

An old, old story over again. 
As down the royal bannered room, 
To the golden gittern's strain, 

Two and two they dreamily walk, 

While an unseen spirit walks beside, 
And, all unheard in the lover's talk. 
He claimeth one for his bride. 

O Maud and Madge, dream on together, 

With never a pang of jealous fear 1 
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal and robed for the tomb. 

Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press. 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace-. - 
Only one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover's face. 



TIME'S CHANGES. 231 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white ! 

For you the revel has just begun ; 
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
The revel of Life is done ! 



But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 

Queen of Heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you'll never miss 
The kisses another hath won ! 

Nora Perry. 



Time's Changes. 

I SAW her once — so freshly fair. 
That like a blossom just unfolding, 
She opened to life's cloudless air, 

And Nature joyed to view its moulding: 
Her smile, it haunts my memory yet ; 

Her cheek's fine hue divinely glowing ; 
Her rosebud mouth, her eyes of jet, 

Around on all their light bestowing. 
Oh, who could look on such a form. 

So nobly free, so softly tender, 
And darkly dream that earthly storm 

Should dim such sweet, delicious splendor? 
For in her mien, and in her face. 

And in her young step's fairy lightness. 
Nought could the raptured gazer trace 

But Beauty's glow and Pleasure's brightness. 

I saw her twice — an altered charm, 
But still of magic richest, rarest. 

Than girlhood's talisman less warm. 

Though yet of earthly sights the fairest ; 



232 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Upon her breast she held a child, 

The very image of its mother, 
Which ever to her smiling smiled — 

They seemed to live but in each other. 
But matron cares or lurking woe 

Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished; 
And from her cheeks the roseate glow 

Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished ; 
Within her eyes, upon her brow, 

Lay something softer, fonder, deeper. 
As if in dreams some visioned woe 

Had broke the Elysium of the sleeper. 

I saw her thrice — Fate's dark decree 

In widow's garments had arrayed her ; 
Yet beautiful she seemed to be 

As even my reveries portrayed her ; 
The glow, the glance, had passed away, 

The sunshine and the sparkling glitter — 
Still, though I noted pale decay. 

The retrospect was scarcely bitter ; 
For in their place a calmness dwelt, 

Serene, subduing, soothing, holy, 
In feeling which, the bosom felt 

That every louder mirth is folly — 
A pensiveness, which is not grief; 

A stillness, as of sunset streaming 
A fairy glow on flower and leaf. 

Till earth looks like a landscape dreaming. 

A last time — and unmoved she lay 

Beyond Life's dim, uncertain river, 
A glorious mould of fading clay, 

From whence the spark had fled forever t 
I gazed — my heart was like to burst — 

And, as I thought of yeais departed — 
The years wherein I saw her first. 

When she, a girl, was lightsome-hearted — 



DAUGHTERS OF TOIL. 233 

And as I mused on later days. 

When moved she in her ma .ron duty, 

A happy mother, in the blaze 

Of ripened hope and sunny beauty— 

I felt the chill— I turned aside- 
Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me ; 

And Being seemed a troubled tide, 

Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me ! 

David M. Moir. 



Daughters of Toil. 

OPALE with want and still despair, 
And faint with hastening others' gam ! 
Whose finely fibered natures bear 

The double curse of svork and pam ; 
Whose days are long with toil unpaid, 

And short to meet the crowding want ; 
Whose nights are short for rest delayed, 
And long for stealthy fears to haunt- 
To whom my lady, hearing faint 

The distance-muffled cry of need. 
Grants, through some alms-dispensing saint. 

The cup of water, cold indeed ; 
The while my lord, pursuing gains 
Amid the market's sordid strife. 
With wagexess labor from your veins 

Wrings out the warm, red wine of life,— 

What hope for you that better days 
Shall climb the yet unreddened east? 

When famine in the morning slays. 
Why look for joy at mid-day feast? 



234 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Far shines the Good, and faintly throws 
A doubtful gleam through mist and rain ; 

But evil Darkness presses close 
His face against the window-pane. 

What hope for you that mansions free 

Await in some diviner sphere, 
Whose sapphire walls can never be 

Devoured, like widows' houses here ? 
Too close these narrow walls incline. 

This slender daylight beams too pale, 
For Heaven's all-loving warmth to shine. 

Or God's blue tenderness avail. 



O brothers ! sisters ! who would fain 

Some balm of healing help apply — 
Cheer some one agony of pain, 

One note of some despairing cry — 
Whose good designs uncertain wait. 

By tangled social bands perplexed, 
O, read the sacred sentence straight : 

Do justice first — love mercy next ! 

Evangeline M. Johnson. 



The Convict Ship. 

TV /T CRN on the waters ! — and purple and bright 
•^ * -*- Bursts on the billows the flushing of light ! 
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, 
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on : 
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail. 
And her pennant streams onward, like hope in the gale I 
The winds come around her in murmur and song, 
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along ! 



THE CONVICT SHIP. 235 

Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds, 

And the sailor sings gayly aloft in the shrouds; 

Onward she glides amid ripple and spray, 

Over the waters — away and away — 

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part, 

Passing away like a dream of the heart ! 

Who — as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, 

Music around her, and sunshine on high — 

Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, 

Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below? 



Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on high, 
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky ; 
Treading its depths in the power of her might. 
Turning the clouds as they pass her to light. — 
Look to the waters — asleep on their breast. 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest? 
Bright and alone on the shadowy main, 
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain I 
Who — as she smiles in the silvery light. 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
A phantom of beauty — could deem with a sigh, 
That so lovely a thing is a mansion of sin. 
And hearts that are smitten lie bursting within ? 
Who, as he watches her silently gliding, 
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever. 
Hearts that are parted and broken forever ? 
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, 
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave? 



'Tis thus with our life while it passes along, 
Like a vessel at sea amid sunshine and song ! 
Gayly we glide in the gaze of the world. 
With streamers afloat and with canvas unfurled ; 



236 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES 

All gladness and glory to wondering eyes — 
Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs, 
Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 
As the smiles we put on — just to cover our tears ; 
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, 
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below: 
And the vessel drives on to that desolate shore, 
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er 

Thomas K. Hervey. 



When from the Heart. 

WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits 
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
Heed not the gloom that soon shall sink, 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 
Back to my heart the captives shrink, 
And bleed within their silent cell. 

Lord Byron. 



The Long-Ago. 

EYES, which can but ill define 
Shapes that rise about and near,- 
Through the far horizon's line 

Stretch a vision free and clear ; 
Memories, feeble to retrace 

Yesterday's immediate flow, — 
Find a dear familiar face 
In each hour of Long ago. 



THE LONG AGO. 23V 

Follow yon majestic train 

Down the slopes of old renown ; 
Knightly forms without disdain, 

Sainted heads without a frown ; 
Emperors of thought and hand 

Congregate, a glorious show, 
Met from every age and land, 

In the plains of Long-ago. 



As the heart of childhood brings 

Something of eternal joy 
From its own unsounded springs, 

Such as life can scarce destroy ; 
So, remindful of the prime, 

Spirits wandering to and fro. 
Rest upon the resting-time 

In the peace of Long-ago, 



Youthful Hope's religious fire, 

When it burns no longer, leaves 
Ashes of impure desire 

On the altars it bereaves ; 
But the light that fills the Past 

Sheds a still diviner glow, 
Ever farther it is cast 

O'er the scenes of Long-ago. 



Many a growth of pain and care, 

Cumbering all the present hour. 
Yields, when once transplanted there, 

Healthy fruit or pleasant flower. 
Thoughts, that hardly flourish here. 

Feelings, long have ceased to blow. 
Breathe a native atmosphere 

In the world of Long-ago. 



238 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

On that deep-retiring shore 

Frequent pearls of beauty lie, 
Where the passion-waves of yore 

Fiercely beat and mounted high ; 
Sorrows — that are sorrows still — 

Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
Nothing 's altogether ill 

In the griefs of Long-ago. 

Tombs where lonely love repines. 

Ghastly tenements of tears, 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years ; 
Death, to those who trust in good, 

Vindicates his hardest blow; 
Oh ! we would not, if we could, 

Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 

Though the doom of swift decay 

Shocks the soul where life is strong ; 
Though for frailer hearts the day 

Lingers sad and overlong : — 
Still the weight will find a leaven, 

Still the spoiler's hand is slow, 
While the future has its Heaven, 

And the past its Long-ago. 

Richard Monckton Mii.nes, 



Sunken Treasures. 

WHEN the uneasy waves of life subside, 
And the soothed ocean sleeps in glassy rest, 
I see, submerged beyond or storm or tide. 
The treasures gathered in its greedy breast. 



SUNKEN TREASURES. 239 

There still t]iey shine through the translucent Past, 

Far down on that forever quiet floor ; 
No fierce upheaval of the deep shall cast 

Them back — no wave shall wash them to the shore. 

I see them gleaming, beautiful as when 

Erewhile they floated, convoys of my fate ; 
The barks of lovely women, noble men, 

Full-sailed with hope, and stored with Love's own freight 

The sunken ventures of my heart as well 

Look up to me, as perfect as at dawn ; 
My golden palace heaves beneath the swell 

To meet my touch, and is again withdrawn. 

There sleep the early triumphs, cheaply won, 

That led Ambition to his utmost verge ; 
And still his visions, like a drowning sun, 

Send up receding splendors through the surge. 

There wait the recognitions, the quick ties. 
Whence the heart knows its kin, wherever cast ; 

And there the partings, when the wistful eyes 
Caress each other as they look their last. 

There lie the summer eves, delicious eves, 

The soft green valleys drenched with light divine. 

The lisping murmurs of the chestnut leaves, 

The hand that lay, the eyes that looked in mine. 

There lives the hour of fear and rapture yet. 
The perilled climax of the passionate years ; 

There still the rains of wan December wet 
A naked mound — I cannot see for tears ! 

There are they all ; they do not fade or waste. 
Lapped in the arms of the embalming brine ; 

More fair than when their beings mine embraced,— 
Of nobler aspect, beauty more divine. 



240 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

I see them all, but stretch my hands in vain ; 

No deep-sea plummet reaches where they rest ; 
No cunning diver shall descend the main, 

And bring a single jewel from its breast. 

Bayard Taylor. 



Oft, in the Stilly Mght, 

OFT, in the stilly night, 
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken t 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather; 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 



AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES. 241 



Amojig the Beautiful Pictures. 

AMONG the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall. 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all ; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge. 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest ; 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip 
It seemeth to me the best 

I once had a little brother 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep ; 
Light as the down of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers. 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, • 

And one of the autumn eves 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of they ellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace. 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face ; 



142 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 

Alice Caky. 



W1%en on my Bed. 

A \ THEN on my bed the moonlight falls, 
^^ I know that in thy place of rest, 
By that broad water of the west, 
There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 

As slowly steals a silver flame 

Along the letters of thy name, 
And o'er the number of thy years, 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight diesj 
And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn, 

A lucid veil from coast to coast; 

And in the dark church, like a ghost, 
Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



I/O IV MANY NOW ARE DEAD TO ME. -"43 



How Many now are Dead to Me. 

T T OW many now are dead to me, 

-*- -■- That live to others yet ! 
How many are aHve to me, 
Who crumble in their graves, nor see 
That sickening, sinking look which we, 
Till dead, can ne'er forget ! 

Beyond the blue seas far away. 

Most wretchedly alone. 
One died in prison, far away, 
Where stone on stone shut out the day, 
And never hope nor comfort's ray 

In his lone dungeon shone. 

Dead to the world, alive to me, 

Though months and years have passed, 

In some lone hour his sigh to me 

Comes like the hum of some wild bee. 

And then his form and face I see, 
As when I saw him last. 

And one with a bright lip, and cheek. 

And eye, is dead to me : 
How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek ! 
His heart was cold, for it did not break; 
His lip was dead, for it did not speak, 

And his eye, for it did not see. 

Then for the living be the tomb, 

And for the dead the smile ; 
Engrave oblivion on the tomb 
Of pulseless life, and senseless bloom : — 
Dim is such glare, but bright the gloom 

Around the funeral pile. 

John G. C. Brainard. 



244 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Breah, Break, Breah. 

BREAK, break, break, 
On thy cold gray stones, O sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play 1 

O well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on, 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Too Late. 

"Ah ! si la jeunesse eavait— ei la vieillesse pouvaltl* 

THERE sat an old man on a rock. 
And unceasing bewailed him of Fate — 
That concern where we all must take stock, 
Though our vote has no hearing or weight; 
And the old man sang him an old, old song — 
Never sang voice so clear and strong 
That it could drown the old man's long, 

For he sang the song '* too late ! too late I" 



TOO LATE. 245 

" When we want, we have for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burned out of our brains, 
Every means shall be present to sate ; 

While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold. 
While the bonnet is trimming the tace grows old, 
When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold, 
And everything comes too late — too late ! 



" When strawberries seemed like red heavens — 

Terrapin stew a wild dream — 
When my brain was at sixes and sevens 
If my mother had ' folks' and ice-cream, 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger — 
But oh ! how I wished I were younger 

When the goodies all came in a stream ! in a stream I 



" I've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver 

That it jars into torture to trot ; 
My row-boat's the gem of the river — 
Gout makes every knuckle a knot ! 

I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, 
But no palate for md7iis — no eyes for a dome — .fr. 

These belonged to the youth who must tarry at home. 
When no home but an attic he'd got — he'd got ! 



" How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, 

Where the tiles baked my brains all July, 
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, 
Two pigs of my own in a sty, 

A rose-bush — a little thatched cottage — 
Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage !— 
Now in freestone I sit — and my dotage— 

With a woman's chair empty close by — close by ! 



246 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

*' Ah ! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great ; 
I have sat — knowing nought of the clock — 
On love's high throne of state ; 

But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed. 
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed, 
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed 
Had they only not come too late ! too late !" 

FiTz Hugh Ludlow. 



Longing. 

OF all the myriad moods of mind 
That through the soul come thronging, 
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful as longing? 
The thing we long for that we are 
For one transcendent moment ; 
Before the present, poor and bare, 
Can make its sneering comment. 



Still through our paltry stir and strife 

Glows down our wished Ideal ; 
And longing moulds in clay what life 

Carves in the marble Real ; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will 
With our poor earthward striving; 

We quench it that we may be still 
Content with merely living ; 



EACH AND ALL. 247 

But would we know that heart's full scope, 

Which we are hourly wronging, 
Our lives must climb from hope to hope, 

And realize our longing. 

Ah ! let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways. 

But when the spirit beckons ; 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction, 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 

James R. Lowell. 



Each and All, 

LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm. 
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height. 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
All are needed by each one- 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even; 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; 
For I did not bring home the river and sky: 
He sang to my ear— they sang to my eye. 
10 



248 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam — 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore, 

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid. 

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed; 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage. 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; 

The gay enchantment was undone — 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 

I leave it behind with the games of youth." — 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 

I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard, 

The rolling river, the morning bird; 

Beauty through my senses stole — 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

RALPif VT". Emerson. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 249 



Qua Cursum Ventus 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 
Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night unsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkUng hours they plied; 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 

And onward each rejoicing steered; 
Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 

Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! in light, in darkness too ! 

Through winds and tides one compass guides — 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas ! 

Though ne'er — that earliest parting past,— 
On your wide plain they join again. 

Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought— 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 
\t last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Ci.ough. 



25C OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 



Divided. 

AN empty sky, a world of heather, 
Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom : 
We two among them wading together, 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet: 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver. 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth, 

And short dry grass under foot is brown. 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. 

II. 
Over the grass we stepped unto it, 

And God, He knoweth how blithe we were 
Never a voice to bid us eschew it ; 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 

Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it, 
We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us. 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 



DIVIDED. 251 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 
We lapped the grass on that youngling sp 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 



III. 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows ; 

Circling above us the black rooks fly, 
Forward, backward : lo, their dark shadows 

Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 

Flit on the beck — for her long grass parteth. 
As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown ba-jk' 

And lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flattering smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather. 
Till one steps over the tiny strand. 

So narrow, in sooth, that still together 
On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done. 
We move apart, while she singeth ever, 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over" — I may not follow ; 

I cry, " Return" — but he cannot come: 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 

Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. 



IV. 

A breathing sigh — a sigh for answer; 

A little talking of outward things: 
The careless beck is a merry dancer, 

Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 



252 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider — 
** Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell :* 

" I may not cross" — and the voice beside her 
Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning : 
No second crossing that ripple's flow : 

" Come to me now, for the west is burning: 
Come ere it darkens." — " Ah, no! ah, nol" 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep; 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them : we walk and weep. 



V. 

A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed. 

Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping. 
Lies she soft on the waves at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears ; 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 

We two walk on in our grassy places. 
On either marge of the moonlit flood, 

With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 
Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 



VI. 

A shady freshness, chafers whirring, 
A little piping of leaf-hid birds; 

A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 



DIVIDED. 253 

Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, 
Round valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, 
Swell high in their freckled robei behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river. 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 



Broad and white, and polished as silver, 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver. 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 

Glitters the dew, and shines the river ; 

Up comes the lily and dries her bell; 
But two are walking apart forever, 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 



VII. 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The river hasteth, her banks recede ; 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing — 
(Shouts of mariners winnow the air) — 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver, 

And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide. 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off side I 



254 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 
My eyes brim over, it melts away : 

Only my heart to my heart shall show it, 
As I walk desolate day by day. 



And yet I know past all doubting, truly, — 
A knowledge greater than grief can dim — 

I know, as he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea, better — e'en better than I love him ; 

And as I walk by the vast calm river, 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, " Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." 

Jean Ingelow. 



To-day and To-morrow. 

HIGH hopes that burn like stars sublime. 
Go down the heavens of freedom ; 
And true hearts perish in the time 

We bitterliest need 'em ! 
But never sit we down and say, 

" There 's nothing left but sorrow :" 
We walk the Wilderness to-day — 
The Promised Land to-morrow. 

Our birds of song are silent now ; 

There are no flowers blooming ! 
But life burns in the frozen bough, 

And Freedom's spring is coming ! 
And Freedom's tide comes up alway, 

Though we may strand in sorrow ; 
And our good bark, aground to-day, 

Shall float again to-morrow ! 



TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 

Through all the long, drear night of years 

The people's cry ascendeth, 
And earth is wet with blood and tears. 

But our meek suffering endeth ! 
The few shall not forever sway, 

The many toil in sorrow : 
The powers of hell are strong to-day, 

But Christ shall rise to-morrow ! 



Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes 

With smiling futures glisten : 
For lo ! our day bursts up the skies — 

Lean out our souls and listen ! 
The world rolls Freedom's radiant way. 

And ripens with her sorrow : 
Keep heart ! who bear the cross to-day 

Shall wear the crown to-morrow ! 



O Youth, flame-earnest, still aspire 

With energies immortal ! 
To many a heaven of desire 

Our yearning opes a portal ! 
And though Age wearies by the way, 

And hearts break in the furrow. 
We'll sow the golden grain to-day — 

The harvest comes to-morrow ! 



Build up heroic lives, and all 

Be hke the sheathen sabre, 
Ready to flash out at God's call — 

O ! Chivalry of labor ! 
Triumph and Toil are twins — and aye 

Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; 
And 't is the martyrdom to-day 

Brings victory to-morrow ! 

Gerald Massey. 
10* 



256 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Present. 

Do not crouch to-day, and v orship 
The old Past whose life is fled: 
Hush your voice with tender reverence; 
Crowned he lies, but cold and dead : 
For the Present reigns our monarch, 

With an added weight of hours : 
Honor h^r, for she is mighty ! 
Honor her, for she is ours ! 

See, the shadows of his heroes 

Girt around her cloudy throne ; 
Every day the ranks are strengthened 

By great hearts to him unknown ; 
Noble things the great Past promised; 

Holy dreams, both strange and new ; 
But the Present shall fulfill them, 

What he promised, she shall do. 

She inherits all his treasures. 

She is heir to all his fame ; 
And the light that lightens round her 

Is the lustre of his name. 
She is wise with all his wisdom, 

Living on his grave she stands; 
On her brow she bears his laurels, 

And his harvest in her hands. 

Coward, can she reign and conquer 

If we thus her glory dim ? 
Let us fight for her as nobly 

As our fathers fought for him. 
God, who crowns the dying ages, 

Bids her rule and us obey : — 
Bids us cast our lives before her, 

Bids us serve the great To-day. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



IS IT COME f 257 



Is it Come? 

Is it come ? they said, on the banks of the Nile, 
Who looked for the world's long-promised day, 
And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil 

With the desert's sand and the granite gray. 
From the Pyramid, temple, and treasured dead, 

We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan ; 
They tell us of the tyrant's dread: — 

Yet there was hope when that day began. 

The Chaldee came with his starry lore. 

And built up Babylon's crown and creed ; 
And bricks were stamped on the Tigris' shore 

With signs which our sages scarce can read. 
From Ninus' temple and Nimrod's tower. 

The rule of the old East's empire spread 
Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power — 

But still, Is it come ? the watcher said. 

The light of the Persian's worshiped flame 

O'er the ancient bondage its splendor threw ; 
And once, on the West a sunrise came. 

When Greece to her freedom's trust was true: 
With dreams to the utmost ages dear, 

With human gods, and with god-hke men, 
No marvel the far-off day seemed near 

To eyes that looked through her laurels then. 

The Romans conquered and reveled too. 

Till honor,and faith, and power were gone; 
And deeper old Europe's darkness grew 

As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. 
The gown was learning, the sword was law ; 

The people served in the oxen's ste id ; 
But ever some gleam the watcher saw — 

And evermore. Is it come ? they said. 



258 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Poet and seer that question caught, 

Above the din of life's fears and frets ; 
It marched with letters, it toiled with thought, 

Through schools and creeds which the earth forgets. 
And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, 

And traders barter our world away — 
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave, 

And still at times, Is it come ? they say. 

The days of the nations bear no trace 

Of all the sunshine so far foretold ; 
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place — 

The age is weary with work and gold ; 
And high hopes wither, and memories wane; 

On hearth and altars the fires are dead ; 
But that brave faith hath not lived in vain — 

And this is all that our watcher said. 

Frances Brown. 



A Song for the JVew Yea7\ 

THE sea sings the song of the ages ; 
The mountain stands mutely sublime ; 
While the blank of Eternity's pages 

Is filled by the fingers of Time. 
But Man robs the sea of its wonder, 

Making syllabled speech of its roar ; 
He rendeth the mountain asunder. 

And roUeth his wheels through its core ; 
He delveth deep down for earth's treasure, 

And every locked secret unbars ; 
He scanneth the heavens at pleasure, 

And writeth his name on the stars. 

But purpose is weaker than passion, 
And patience is dearer than blood ; 

And his face groweth withered and ashen 
Ere he findeth and graspeth the good. 



A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR. 259 

He pursueth the phantom of beauty, 

Or peddleth his valor for pelf; — 
Till the iron of merciless duty 

Has crashed through the armor of self. 
He soweth the life of his brother ; 

He wasteth the half of his soul ; — 
The harvest is reaped by another, 

And Death dippeth deep for his toll. 

So the march of triumphal procession. 

That Science is fain to begin, 
Is hindered with painful digression 

Of ignorance, folly, and sin. 
Through mazes of needless confusion 

The stoiy of Freedom must bend ; 
And the grandest and simplest conclusion 

Go stumbling along to its end. 
Yet a year does not slide o'er the border 

Of time, but some progress it shows ; 
And a lustrum proves prescience and order — 

Thus the drama creeps on to its close. 

If the blood that w^as weaker than water 

Too thinly and sluggishly ran, 
Lo ! the wine of the vintage of slaughter 

Giveth strength to the sinews of man ; 
And the shout of a lusty young nation 

Now greets his gray brothers with glee, 
And the swell of its ringing vibration 

Sweeps over the isles of the sea ; 
While Liberty looks for a morrow 

That promiseth joyous increase. 
As waneth her midnight of sorrow. 

And waxeth her morning of peace ! 

Edwin Rossiter Johnson. 



26o OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



A Psahn of Life. 

' I ""ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
-^ " Life is but an empty dream; 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem I" 

Life is real ! Life is earnes ! 

And the grave is not its goal : 
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brAve, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle. 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead 1 
Act, act in the living Present, 

Heart within, and God o'erhead I 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footp :ints on the sands of time : 



THE DAY'S RATION. 261 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er Ufe's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing. 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



Know Thyself. 

rNDjQI dsavrov ! And is this the prime 
And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time? 
Say, can'st thou make thyself? Learn first that trade 
Haply thou may'st know what thyself had made. 
What hast thou, Man, that thou dost call thine own ? 
What is there in thee, Man, that can be known ? 
Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, 
A phantom dim, of past and future wrought, 
Vain sister of the worm, life, death, soil, clod. 
Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



The Day's Ration. 

WHEN I was born, 
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice, 
Saying, " This be thy portion, child ; this chalice. 
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw 
From my great arteries — nor less nor more." 
All substances the cunning chemist Time 
Melts down into that liq aor of my life — 



262 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty, and disgust ; 

And whether I am angry or content, 

Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt, 

All he distills into sidereal wine. 

And brims my little cup ; heedless, alas ! 

Of all he sheds, how little it will hold, 

How much rains over on the desert sands. 

If a new Muse draw me with splendid ray, 

And I uplift myself into its heaven, 

The needs of the first sight absorb my blood. 

And all the following hours of the day 

Drag a ridiculous age. 

To-day, when friends approach, and every hour 

Brings book, or star-bright scroll of genius, 

The little cup will hold not a bead more, 

And all the costly liquor runs to waste ; 

Nor gives the jealous lord one diamond-drop, 

So to be husbanded for future days. 

Why need I volumes, if one word suffice? 

Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught, 

After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfiUs 

My apprehension ? Why seek Italy, 

Who cannot circumnavigate the sea 

Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn 

The nearest matters for a thousand days? 

Ralph W. Emerson. 



Extract. 

TV /T Y genial spirits fail; 

■•-'J- And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 

It were a vain endeavor. 

Though I should gaze forever 
On that green light that lingers in the west, 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life whose fountains are within. 



THE HAU-NTED PALACE. 263 

O Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does Nature live ; 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud, 

And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate, cold world, allowed 
To the poor, loveless, ever anxious crowd, 

Ah, from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair, luminous cloud, 

Enveloping the earth : 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice of its own birth. 
Of aJl sweet sounds the life and element ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



The Haunted Palace. 

"TN the greenest of our valleys. 

By good angels tenanted. 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood there : 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow ; 
(This, all this was in the olden 

Time, long ago) ; 
And every gentle air that dallied 

In thai sweet day. 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor, went away. 



264 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw 
Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tuned law. 
Round about a throne where sitting, 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 



And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, tlowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of echoes whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things in robes of sorrow 

Assailed the monarch's high estate ; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed. 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a rapid, ghastly river, 

Through the pale door, 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

Edgar A. PoE. 



THE SUNKEN CITY. 265 



The Sunken City, 

l_J- ARK ! the faint bells of the sunken city 

Peal once more their wonted evening chime t 
From the deep abysses floats a ditty 
Wild and wondrous, of the olden time. 

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories 

There lie buried in an ocean grave, — 
Undescried, save when the golden glories 

Gleam at sunset through the lighted wave. 

And the mariner who had seen them glisten, 
In whose ears those magic bells do sound, — 

Night by night bides there to watch and listen. 

Though death lowers behind each dark rock round. 

So the bells of Memory's wonder-city 

Peal for me their old melodious chime, 
So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty, 

Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time. 

Domes and towers and castles, fancy-builded, 
There lie lost to daylight's garish beams, — 

There lie hidden till unveiled and gilded, 
Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams I 

And then hear I music sweet upwelling 

From full many a well-known phantom band, 

And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling, 
Far off in the spirit's luminous land ! 

WiLHELM Mueller, 

-'ranslatlon of James C. Mangan. 

la 



266 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Fancy in JYuhihus. 

/~\H, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 

^-^ Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, 

To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 

Or let the easily-persuaded eyes 

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bent low, 

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold, 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 

From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land 1 

Or, listening to the tide with closed sight. 

Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand, 

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light. 

Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



On first looking into Chapman's Homer 

"IV /1~UCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, 

-^'-*- And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 

Round many western islands have I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne ; 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold ; 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; 

Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — ard all his men 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

John Keats. 



IMA GIN A TION. 267 



Imagination. 

I NEVER may believe 
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, 
Such shaping fantasies that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet 
Are of imagination all compact ; 
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ; — 
That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic, 
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. 
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
And as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation, and a name. 

William Shakespeare, 



Ode. 

INTIHATION8 OP IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OP EABLT 
CHILDHOOD. 



'T'HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
-■- The earth and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light — 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



368 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 

II. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with dt light 
Look round her when the heavens are bare 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



III. 

Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 

To me alone there came a thought of grief; 

A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep — 
No more shall grief of mine the season w-ong. 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity ; 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy; 
shepherd boy ! 

IV. 

Ye blessed creatures ! I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
Mv heart is at your festival, 



ODE 269 

My head hath its coronal — 
The fullness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
O evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning. 

This sweet May morning, 
And the children are culling 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a tree, of many one, 
A single field which I have looked upon — 
Both of them speak of something that is gone; 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat. 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star. 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar. 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 

From God, who is our home ! 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 



270 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the Hght of common day, 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 

Yearnmgs she hath in her own natural kind ; 

And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no urworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 

To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral — 

And this hath now his heart. 
And unto this he frames his song. 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part — 
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage** 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



ODE. 27 1 



VIII. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ! 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind ! — 
Mighty prophet ! Seer blest, 
On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave I 
Thou over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by I 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thufi blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life 1 



IX. 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 

Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast- 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 



872 OUR POETKAL FAVORITES. 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
FaUings from us, vanishings, 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised — 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day. 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing, 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never — 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither — 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song I 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 

We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May 1 



ODE. 273 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower — 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind : 

In the primal sympathy 

Which, having been, must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death. 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



XI. 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordsworth. 



74 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Hermit. 

A T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
■^^ And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, 
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 

And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, 

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; 
No more with himself or with nature at war. 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man : 

"Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow. 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay — 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn 
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away ! 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

" Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky. 

The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; 
But lately I marked when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor again ! 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew "i 

Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more. 

I mourn — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching your charms to restore, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. 
Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn — 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; 
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn? 

O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ?" 



THE FIRST VOICES OF PARADISE. 27s 

" 'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind. 
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
' O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 

♦ Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free. 

" And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : 
So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending. 

And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blendmg. 

And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 

James Beattie. 



The First Voices of- Paradise, 



w: 



'HAT was 't awakened first the untuned ear 
Of that sole man who was all human kind? 
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, 
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sear ? 
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near. 
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined ? 
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind 
Bursting the brake in wonder, not in fear. 
Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground 
Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet? 
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around. 
Making sweet music out of air as sweet? 
Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 

Hartley Coleridge. 

U* 



276 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



H 



The Bells. 

EAR the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells — 
What a world of merriment their melody foretdls ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
- With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the beils. 

Hear the mellow wedding-bells, 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight 
From the molten-golden notes ! 
And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
W^hat a gush of euphony voluminously wells I 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells I 



THE BELLS. 277 

Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a talc of terror, now, their turbulency tells 1 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek. 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar I 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells- 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody Compels ! 



278 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone i 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats, 

Is a groan : 
And the peopk — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human— 

They are Ghouls ! 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the paean of the bells — 
Of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 



THE RA VEN. 279 

Bells, bells, bells, — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

Edgar A. Poe. 



Tlie Raven. 

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 
and .veary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. 
'"T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber 
door : 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 

floor. 
Eagerly I v/ished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 

Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain, 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 
before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood re- 
peating, 

" 'T is bome visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
door, — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 
This it is, and nothing more." 



2?o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly vour forgiveness I implore ; 

But the fact is, I vvas napping, and so gently you came rap- 
ping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 
door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide 
the door; — 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wonder- 
ing, fearing. 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream 
before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no 
token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word 
" Lenore!" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 
" Lenore !" 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
burning. 

Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before. 

" Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window- 
lattice ; 

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; — 
'T is the wind, and nothing more !" 

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 

flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or 

stayed he ; 



THE RAVEN. 281 

But. with mien of lord oi- lady, perched above my chamber 

door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 



Th;n this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 

" art sure no craven ; 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly 

shore ! 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 

shore !" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !" 



Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 

plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 

door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door, 

With such name as " Nevermore !" 



But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
pour. 

Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he flut- 
tered — 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have 
flown before — 

On the morrow he will leave mo, as my hopes have flowt 
before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore l" 



282 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and 
store, 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful dis- 
aster 

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden 
bore, — 

Till the dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore, 
Of — " Never — nevermore !" 

But — the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, — 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and 

bust, and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 

of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore !" 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 

core; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated 

o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating 

o'er. 

She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censer. 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these 

angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 

Lenore !" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !" 



THE RA VEN. 283 

" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

ashore. 
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
In this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me— tell me, I im- 
plore !" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !" 



" Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both 

adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Le- 

nore; 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore !" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore I" 



" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 

upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above mj 

door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form fron. 

off my door !" 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 



And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; 



284 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming, 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 
<loor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgar A. Poe. 



My Thirty-sixth Year. 

MissoLONGHi, Jan. 22, 1824. 

"Tp IS time this heart should be unmoved, 

-^ Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf, 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone : 
The worm, the canker, and the grief. 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that in my bosom preys 

Is like to some volcanic isle: 
No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of Love, 1 cannot share, 
But wear the chain ! 

But 't is not thus — and 't is not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now. 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 



LOSSES. 28s 



The sword, the banner, and the field. 
Glory and Greece around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free ! 



A-wake 1 — not Greece — she is awake ! — 

Awake my spirit ! Think through whom 
rhy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 



Tread those reviving passions down 

Unworthy manhood, — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 



Lord Byron. 



Losses. 

UPON the white sea-sand 
There sat a pilgrim band. 
Telling the losses that their lives hcd known; 
While evening waned away 
From breezy cliff and bay. 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 



e86 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

One spake, with quivering lip, 

Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone down; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green • 

And one upon the West 

Turned an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold, 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends that were their trust no more; 

And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave, 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done, 
There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
" Sad losses have ye met, 
But mine is heavier yet ; 
For a believing heart hath gone from me. " 



" Alas !" these pilgrims said, 

" For the living and the dead — 
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sore cross, 

For the wrecks of land and sea ! 

But, however it came to thee. 
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 

Frances Brown. 



GOING OUT AND COMING IN. 287 

Going Out and Coining In. 

FN that home was joy and sorrow, where an infant first 

drew breath. 
While an aged sire was drawing near unto the gates of 

death 
His feebie pulse was failing and his eye was growing dim, — 
He was standing on the threshold when they brought the 

babe to him : 
While to murmur forth a blessing on the little one he tried, 
In his trembling arms he raised it, pressed it to his lips — 

and died ! 
An awful darkness restelh on the path they both begin, 
Who thus meet upon the threshold — Going out and Coming 

in! 

Going out unto the triumph, coming in unto the fight : 
Coming in unto the darkness, going out unto the light,— 
Although the shadow deepened in the moment of eclipse. 
When he passed through the dread portal with a blessing on 

his lips : 
And to him who bravely conquers as he conquered in the 

strife. 
Life is but the way of dying, death is but the gate of life. 
Yei awful darkness resteth on the path we all begin, 
When we meet upon the threshold — Going out and Coming 

in. 

Isabella Craig. 



For a Timepiece. 

Now ! — it is gone. Our brief hours travel post, 
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How; — 
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost. 
To dwell within thee — an eternal Now ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



288 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Weariness. 

O LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and feao^ 
Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
\, nearer to the wayside Inn, 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin. 
Am weary, thinking of your road 1 

O little hands ! that weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 

Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary thinking of your task. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine, that so long has glowed and burned. 
With passions into ashes turned 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 



O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine ; 
Refracted through the mist of years. 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine I 

Henry W. Longfellow 



PRESUMPTION AND DESPAIR. 289 



Presumption and Despair* 

/^NE time I was allowed to steer 
^^ Through realms of azure light : 
Henceforth, I sdid, I need not fear 

A lower, meaner flight ; 
But here shall evermore abide 
In light and splendor glorified. 

My heart one time the rivers fed, 

Large dews upon it lay ; 
A freshness it has won, I said, 

Which shall not pass away ; 
But what it is, it shall remain, 
Its freshness to the end retain. 

But when I lay upon the shore, 

Like some poor wounded thing, 
I deemed I should not evermore 

Refit my shattered wing ; 
Nailed to the ground and fastened there, 
This was the thought of my despair. 

And when my very heart seemed dried. 

And parched as summer dust, 
Such still I deemed it must abide. 

No hope had I, no trust 
That any power again could bless 
With fountains that waste wilderness. 

But if both hope and fear were vain. 

And came alike to naught. 
Two lessons we from this may gain. 

If aught can teach us aught: — 
One lesson rather to divide 
Between our fearfulness and pride. 

Richard Chenevix Trench. 



ago OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Extreme Unction. 

Go ! leave me, Priest ; my soul would be 
Alone with the consoler, Death ; 
Far sadder eyes than thine will see 

This crumbling clay yield up its breath : 
These shriveled hands have deeper stains 

Than holy oil can cleanse away — 
Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains, 
As erst they plucked the flowers of May, 

Call, if thou canst, to these gray eyes 

Some faith from youth's traditions wrung ; 
This fruitless husk which dustward dries, 

Has been a heart once, has been young; 
On this bowed head the awful Past 

Once laid its consecrating hands ; 
The Future in its purpose vast 

Paused, waiting my supreme commands. 

But look ! whose shadows block the door ? 

Who are those two that stand aloof? 
See ! on my hands this freshening gore 

Writes o'er again its crimson proof ! 
My looked-for death-bed guests are met ; — 

There my dead Youth doth wring its hands. 
And there, with eyes that goad me yet, 

The ghost of my Ideal stands ! 

God bends from out the deep and says — 

"I gave thee the great gift of life 
Wast thou not called in many ways ? 

Are not my earth and heaven at strife ? 
I gave thee of my seed to sow, 

Bringest thou me my hundred-fold ?" 
Can I look up with face aglow, 

And answer, " Father, here is gold?** 



EXTREME UNCTION. jgi 

I have been innocent ; God knows, 

When first this wasted hfe began, 
Not grape with grape more kindly grows 

Than I with every brother-man ; 
Now here I gasp ; what lose my kind, 

When this fast-ebbing breath shall part? 
What bands of love and service bind 

This being to the world's sad heart ? 



Christ still was wandering o'er the earth 

Without a place to lay his head; 
He found free welcome at my hearth. 

He shared my cup and broke my bread; 
Now, when I hear those steps sublime. 

That bring the other world to this. 
My snake-turned nature, sunk in slime. 

Starts sideway with defiant hiss. 



Upon the hour when I was born, 

God said, " Another man shall be ;" 
And the great Maker did not scorn 

Out of himself to fashion me ; 
He sunned me with his ripening looks, 

And Heaven's rich instincts in me grew, 
As effortless as woodland nooks 

Send violets up and paint them blue. 



Yes, I who now, with angry tears, 

Am exiled back to brutish clod, 
Have borne unquenched for fourscore years 

A spark of the eternal God ; 
And to what end ? How yield I back 

The trust for such high uses given ? 
Heaven's light hath but revealed a track 

Whereby to crawl away from heaven. 



OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 

Men think it is an awful sight 

To see a soul just set adrift 
On that drear voyage from whose night 

The ominous shadows never lift ; 
But 'tis more awful to behold 

A helpless infant newly born, 
Whose little hands unconscious hold 

The keys of darkness and of morn. 



Mine held them once ; I flung away 

Those keys that might have open set 
The golden sluices of the day, 

But clutch the keys of darkness yet ; — 
I hear the reapers singing go 

Into God's harvest; 1, that might 
With them have chosen, here below 

Grope shuddering at the gates of night. 



O glorious Youth, that once was mine ! 

O high ideal ! all in vain 
Ye enter at this ruined shrine 

Whence worship ne'er shall rise again ; 
The bat and owl inhabit here, 

The snake nests in the altar-stone, 
The sacred vessels moulder near, — 

The image of the god is gone. 

James Russell Lowell. 



From the Persian. 

ON parent knees, a naked, new-bcrn child, 
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled , 
So live that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep ! 

Sir William Jones. 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 293 

Retribution. 

'0^£ 5£(»K dXsovdr /jivXot, dXsovdt ds XsTtrcl. 

(" The mills of the gods grind late, but they grind fine.") 

Greek Poet. 



THE ABOVE PARAPHRASED. 

THOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind 
exceeding small : 
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness 
grinds he all. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



Careless seems the Great Avenger; history's pages but 
record 

One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the 
Word : 

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne ; 

But that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim 'in- 
known 

Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above H»s 
own ! 

James R. Lowell. 



Ml/ Life is like the Surmner Rose. 

"A >T"Y life is like the summer rose 
-*-'-■- That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close. 
Is scattered on the ground— to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But morn shall weep a tear for me 1 



294 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

My life is like the autumn leaf 
That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
Its hold is frail, — its date is brief, 
Restless and soon to pass away ! 
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand, 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that low shore loud moans the sea, . 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde. 



When I do Count the Clock. 

"VTTHEN I do count the clock that tells the time 

' ' And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
When 1 behold the violet past prime. 
And sable curls all silvered o'er with white ; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
And summer's green, all girded up in sheaves. 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; 
Then of thy beauty do I question make, 
That thou among the wastes of time must go, 
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake. 
And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, 
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. 

Shakespeare. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 295 



The Good Great Man. 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains 1 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits, 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 

For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain ! 

What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? 

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain. 

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? 

Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 

The good great man? Three treasures — love, and. light, 

And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night — 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death? 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



On His Blindness. 

WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest he returning chide — 
" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?" 
I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also ser»re who only stand and wait. " 

John Milton. 



296 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



To Cyriach Slcinner. 

/^"^YRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, 

^--' To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: 

Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 

Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man or woman, yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 

Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 

Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 

In Liberty's defence, my noble task, 

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask. 

Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 

John Milton. 



Virtue. 

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright. 
The bridal of the earth and sky 1 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in the grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie. 
My music shows ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 



LYCIDAS. 297 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal. 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



Lycidas. 

"\7"ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, 

-^ Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere, 
1 come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 
Begin, then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn. 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ; 
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn. 



298 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 

Oft till the star that rose at evening bright 

Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. 

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 

Te.mpered to the oaten flute ; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 

From the glad sound would not be absent long, 

And old Damaetas loved to hear our song. 

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone — 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 
And all their echoes, mourn ; 
The willows, and the hazel copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen, 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose. 
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear, 
When first the white-thorn blows; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 

Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. 
Nor on the shaggy top of IVlona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream — 
Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself for her enchanting son. 
Whom universal Nature did lament, 
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade. 



L YCIDAS. 299 

And strictly meditate the thankless muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 

(That last infirmity of noble minds) 

To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 

And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, 

^Vnd slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, 

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 

Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes. 

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 

As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood. 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat proceeds, 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? 
And questioned every gust of rugged winds 
That blows from off each beaked promontory ; 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
12 



300 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge. 
Like to that sanguine flower,inscribed with woe. 
Ah ! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 
He shook his mitered locks, and stern bespake: 
How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! 
What recks it them? what need they? they are sped; 
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said : — 
But that two-handed engine at the door, 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 

Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. 
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes, 



LYCIDAS. ^o^ 

That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers. 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 

Ah me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled. 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 

Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 

Where the great vision of the guarded mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 

Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth ! 

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 

Weep no more, woeful Shepherds, weep no more ! 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor : 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky ; 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, 



302 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

In the blest kingdoms meek of Joy and Love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; 
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. 
While the still morn went out with sandals gray; 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay ; 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

John Milton. 



Henry Kirke White. 

UNHAPPY White ! while life was in its spring, 
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
O ivhat a noble heart was there undone. 
When Science' self destroyed her favorite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit ; 
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 
' r was thine own genius gave the fatal blow. 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. 
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again. 
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And winged the shaft that quivers at his heart. 



HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 303 

Keen vere his pangs ; but keener far to feel 
He n irsed the pinion which impelled the steel, 
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
Drank the last life- drop from his bleeding breast ! 

Lord Byron. 



Hymn to Adversity. 

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, 
Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 

The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
And purple tyrants vainly groan 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 



When first thy sire to send on earth 

Virtue, his darling child, designed. 
To thee he gave the heavenly birth. 

And bade to form her infant mind. 
Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore ; 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
And from her own she learned to melt at others' woe. 



Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse, and with them go 
The summer friend, the flattering foe ; 
By vain Prosperity received. 
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. 



304 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Wisdom in sable garb arrayed, 

Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 

And Melancholy, silent maid. 

With leaden eye that loves the ground, 

Still on thy solemn steps attend ; 

Warm Charity, the general friend, 

With Justice to herself severe, 

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 

O ! gently on thy suppliant's head. 

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand, 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 

Nor circled with the vengeful band, 
(As by the impious thou art seen,) 
With thundering voice and threatening mien, 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 

Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear, 

Thy milder influence impart. 
Thy philosophic train be there 

To soften, not to wound, my heart. 
The generous spark extinct revive. 
Teach me to love, and to forgive. 
Exact my own defects to scan. 
What others are to feel, and know myself a man. 

Thomas Gray. 



Resignation. 

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended. 
But one dead lamb is there ; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair. 



RESIGN A TION. 3oS 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. 

Will not be comforted. 

Let us be patient ; these severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise ; 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors 

Amid these earthly damps; 
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death ! What seems so is transition : 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portals we call death. 

She is not dead — the child of our affection — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion. 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day, we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 



JO'S OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when, with raptures wild, 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion. 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 

The swelling heart heaves, moaning like the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We cannot wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Henry W, Longfellow. 



I 



My Child. 

CANNOT make him dead 1 
His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
Yet when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — he is not there I 

I walk my parlor floor. 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; 

I 'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 



MV CHILD. 307 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satcheled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there I 



I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 



I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed 
So long watched over with parental care. 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there I 



When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake. 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up with joy. 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 



When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there I 
12* 



3o8 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Not there ? Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-ofif dress. 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there t 

He lives ! In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there i^ 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit land. 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 

John Pierpont. 



The Alpine Shepherd. 

■\ T THEN on my ear your loss was knelled, 

* ' And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little spring from memory welled 

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst ; 



And 'I was fain to bear to you 
A portion of its mild relief, 

That it might be as cooling dew, 
To steal some fever from yo jr grief. 



THE ALPINE SHEPHERD. 309 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way, 
And on oar home the shade of death 

Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round with us to weep 

The little spirit's swift remove — 
This story of the Alpine sheep 

Was told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care. 
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, 

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The shepherd strives to make them climb 

To any shelves of pasture green 

That hang along the mountain side, 
Where grass and flowers together lean. 

And down through mists the sunbeams glide. 

But naught can lure the timid things. 

The steep and rugged path to try. 
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 

And seared below the pastures lie. 

Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 

Along the dizzy verge to go. 
When, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 

They follow on o'er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures lifted fair, 

More dewy soft than lowland mead, 
The shepherd drops his tender care, 

And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by nature breathed. 

Blew on me as the south wind free, 
O'er frozen brooks that flow, unsheathed 

From icy thraldom, to the sea. 



3IO OUR POETICAL FAVORITES 

A blissful vision through the night 

Would all my happy senses sway, 
Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 

Or climbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lambs asleep — 

And like the murmur of the sea 
Sounded that voice along the deep, 

Saying, " Arise, and follow me !" 

Maria Lowell. 



Only a Curl. 

FRIENDS of faces unknown, and a land 
Unvisited over the sea, 
Who tell me how lonely you stand 
With a single gold curl in the hand, 
Held up to be looked at by me, — 

While you ask me to ponder, and say 

What a father and mother can do 
With the bright fellow-locks put away. 
Out of reachj beyond kiss, in the clay, 
Where the violets press nearer than you,— 

Shall I speak like a poet, or run 
Into weak woman's tears for relief? 

Oh, children — I never lost one ; 

Yet my arm 's round my own little son, 
And Love knows the secret of grief. 

And I feel what it must be and is. 

When God draws a new angel so. 
Through the house of a man up to His, 
With a murmur of music you miss. 
And a rapture of light you forego : 



ONLY A CURL. 311 

How you think, staring on at the door 
Where the face oi your angel flashed in, 

That its brightness, familiar before. 

Burns off from you ever the more 
For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 

" God lent him and takes him," you sigh. 

Nay, there let me break with your pain : 
God 's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which he gives, I deny 

That he ever can take back again. 



He gives what he gives : I appeal 

To all who bear babes ; in the hour 
When the veil of the body we feel 
Rent around us — while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power. 

And the babe cries — has each of us known 

By apocalypse — God being there 
Full in nature — the child is our own, 
Life of life, love of love, moan of moan. 
Through all changes, all times, everywher-^ 

He 's ours, and forever. Believe, 

O father ! — O mother, look back 
To the first love's assurance. To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or deceive. 
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. 

He gives what he gives. Be content ! 

He resumes nothing given — be sure 1 
God lend ? Where the usurers lent 
In his temple, indignant he went, 

And scourged away all those impure. 



312 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

He lends not, but gives to the end. 
As he loves to the end. If it seem 

That he draws back a gift, comprehend 

'T is to add to it, rather, amend, 
And finish it up to your dream, — 

Or keep, as a mother may, toys 

Too costly, though given by herself, 

Till the room shall be stiller from noise, 

And the children more fit for such joys, 

Kept over their heads on the shelf. 

So look up, friends ! you who indeed 

Have possessed in your house a sweet piece 
Of the heaven which men strive for, must need 
Be more earnest than others are — speed 
Where they loiter, persist where they cease. 

You know how one angel smiles there, — 

Then, courage. 'T is easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair 
To the safe place above us. Adieu. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



Spinning of the Shroud, 

SLOWLY ravel, threads of doom ; 
Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn ; 
Death's inexorable gloom 

Stretches like the frozen tarn 
Never thawed by sunbeams kind, 
Ruffled ne'er by wave or wind ; 
Man beholds it and is still, 
Daunted by its mortal chill ; 
Thither haste my helpless feet, 
While I spin my winding-sheet J 



SPINNING OF THE SHROUD. 313 

Summer's breath, divinely warm. 

Kindles every pulse to glee : 
Fled are traces of the storm, 

Wintry frost and leafless tree ; 
Shakes the birch its foliage light. 
In the sun the mists are bright ; 
Heaven and earth their hues confound^ 
Scattering rainbows on the ground ; 
Life with rapture is replete, 
While I spin my winding-sheet ! 

Summer's voice is loud and clear, 

Lowing kine and rippling swell; 
Yet beneath it all I hear 

Something of a funeral knell. 
Sings the linnet on the bough. 
Sings my bridegroom at the plow ; 
Whirrs the grouse along the brake, 
Plash the trout within the lake ; 
Soft the merry lambkins bleat, — 
While I spin my winding-sheet 1 

Thatched with mosses green and red. 

Blooming as a fairy hill, 
Lifts my home its cheerful head 

3y the ever-leaping rill. 
Lo ! its future inmates rise. 
Gathering round with loving eyes; 
Some my Dugald's features wear. 
Some have mine, but far more fair ; 
Prattling lips my name repeat,— 
While I spin my winding-sheet ! 

Youth is bright above my track. 
Health is strong within my breast; 

Wherefore must this shadow black 
On my bridal gladness rest ? 



V'A OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

On my happy solitude 

Must the vision still intrude ? 

Must the icy touch of Death 

Freeze my song's impassioned breath ? 

I am young and youth is sweet ; 

Why, then, spin my winding-sheet ? 

Hark ! the solemn winds reply : 

" Woman, thou art born to woe; 
Long ere 'tis thine hour to die, 

Thou shalt be well pleased to go. 
Though the sunshine of to-day 
Blind thine eyeballs with its ray, 
Grief shall swathe thee in its pall, • 

Life's beloved before thee fall : 
Bride, the grave hath comfort meet, 
Thankful spin thy winding-sheet !" 

Mrs. Ogilvie. 



The Sour of Death. 

LEAVES have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care. 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour. 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all aie thine. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 3^5 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane. 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-- 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season— a// are ours to die 1 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home. 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend. 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Mrs. Felicia Hemans. 



3i6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Where is He? 

A ND where is he ? Not by the side 
•*^ Of her whose wants he loved to tend; 
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, 

Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend I 
That form beloved he marks no more ; 

Those scenes admired no more shall see— 
Those scenes are lovely as before, 

And she as fair — but where is he ? 

No, no, the radiance is not dim 

That used to gild his favorite hill ; 
The pleasures that were dear to him, 

Are dear to life and nature still : 
But ah ! his home is not so fair, 

Neglected must his garden be — 
The lilies droop and wither there, 

And seem to whisper, where is he ? 

His was the pomp, the crowded hall ! 

But where is now the proud display? 
His riches, honors, pleasures, all 

Desire could frame ; but where are they ? 
And he, — as some tall rock that stands 

Protected by the circling sea, — 
Surrounded by admiring bands. 

Seemed proudly strong — and where is he? 

The churchyard bears an added stone, 

The fireside shows a vacant chair ! 
Here sadness dwells and weeps alone. 

And death displays his banner there ; 
The life has gone, the breath has fled. 

And what has been no more shall be ; 
The well-known form, the welcome tread. 

Oh ! where are they ? and where is he ? 

Henry Neele. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 317 



The Death-'bed. 

■^ T TE watched her breathin-g through the nighti 

• • Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of hfe 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



Elegy written in a Country Church- 
yard. 

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 



3 1 8 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
" How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave. 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 319 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, — 
Some mute, inglorious Milton, — here may rest ; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



320 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 3^1 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love, 

•'* One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 



THE EPITAPH, 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God, 

Thomas Gray. 



322 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 



On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 

OH that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails — else how distinct they say 
'* Grieve not, my child— chase all thy fears away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes — 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize : 
• The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 

To quench it !) — here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie : 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll on thy burial-day ; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 



RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 323 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 

What ardently I wished, I long believed, 

And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 

By expectation every day beguiled, 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learned at last submission to my lot ; 

But,. though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more- 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped — 
'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced; 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 
The biscuit or confectionery plum : 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed. 
All this, and more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor, interposed, too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
13 



3^4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine, — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while — 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)— 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, 
(The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed,) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streameis gay, — 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ;" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distressed. 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he I 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 325 

And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run 
His wonted course : yet what I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again — 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine : 
And while the wings of fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft. 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

William Cowper. 



Cowper's Grave. 

TT is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's 
'- decaying, — 

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their pray- 
ing : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish — 
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her 
anguish ! 

O poets ! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless 



smgmg 



O Christians ! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was 
clinging ! 

O men ! this man, in brotherhood, your weary paths beguil- 
ing, 

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye 
were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears 

his story, 
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, 
And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering 

lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted ; 



326 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration : 
Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good forsaken : 
Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath 
taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon 

him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness, on God whose heaven 

hath won him. — 
Who suffcied once the madness-cloud toward his love to blind 

him ; 
But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could 

find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic 
senses, 

As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influ- 
ences ! 

The pulse of dew upon the grass his own did softly number; 

And silent shadows from the trees fell o'er him like a 
slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's chill 
removing, 

Its women and its men became beside him, true and loving ! 

And timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home- 
caresses, 

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses ! 

But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the 
guiding. 

And things provided came without the sweet sense of pro- 
viding. 

He testified this solemn truth, though phrenzy desolated — 

Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created I 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 3^7 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she 

blesses 
And droppeth on his burning brow the coolness of her 

kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother ! where's 

my mother?" — 
As if such tender words and looks could come from any 

other ! — 

The fever gone, vi'ith leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er 

him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she 

bore him ! — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever 

gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to 

save him ! 

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that 

awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him 

breaking ; 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour I not 

deserted !" 

Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness 

rested, 
Upon the victim's hidden face, no love was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops 

averted, 
What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should 

be deserted ? 

Deserted ! God could separate from his own essence rather: 
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and 
Father ; 



328 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath 

shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am forsaken !" 

It went up from the holy lips amid his lost creation, 

That of the lost no son should use those words of desola- 
tion ; 

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not 
hope's fruition, 

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture, in a 
vision ! 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



Tlxe Sleep. 

" He giveth his beloved sleep."— Psalm cxxviL 3. 

OF all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is. 
For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
" He giveth his beloved sleep !" 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart to be unmoved, 

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, 
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 
The monarch's crown to light the brows,— 

He giveth his beloved sleep ! 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep. 
And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake,— 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 



THE SLEEP. 329 

** Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep j 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break his happy slumber when 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 



O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices ! 

O delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
O strife and curse that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 



His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap ; 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

He giveth his beloved sleep. 



Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A livmg, thinking, feeling man 

Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 

He giveth his beloved sleep ! 



For me my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the mummers leap. 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose 

Who giveth his beloved sleep. 



330 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let One most loving of you all 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ; 

He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



The Sexton. 

NIGH to a grave that was newly made, 
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral-train at the open gate. 
A relic of by-gone days was he, 
And his locks were gray as the foamy sea ; 
And these words came from his lips so thin : 
' ' I gather them in — I gather them in — 
Gather — gather — I gather them in. 

" I gather them in ; for man and boy, 

Year after year of grief and joy, 

I 've builded the houses that lie around 

In every nook of this burial-ground. 

Mother and daughter, father and son, 

Come to my solitude one by one ! 

But come they stranger, or come they kin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 

" Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; 

I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 

On a monument slab of marble cold — 

My scepter of rule is the spade I hold. 

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, 

Mankind are my subjects, all — all — all ! 

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfuUy spin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 



THE GRAVE. 331 

" I gather them in, and their final rest 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast !" — 

And the Sexton ceased as the funeral-train 

Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; 

And I said to myself: When time is told, 

A mightier voice than that sexton's old, 

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din : 

" I gather them in — I gather them in : 

Gather— gather— gather them in !" 

Park Benjamin. 



The Grave. 

T^HE grave, it is deep and soundless, 
-•- And canopied over w^ith clouds ; 
And trackless, and dim, and boundless 
Is the unknown land that it shrouds. 

In vain may the nightingales warble 

Their songs — the roses of love 
And friendship grow white on the marble 

The living have reared above. 

The virgin, bereft at her bridal 

Of him she has loved, may weep ; 
The wail of the orphan is idle, 

It breaks not the buried one's sleep. 

Yet everywhere else shall mortals 

For peace unavailingly roam ; 
Except through the shadowy portals 

Goeth none to his genuine home ! 

And the heart that tempest and sorrow 

Have beaten against for years, 
Must look for a happier morrow 
Beyond this temple of tears. 
Translated by J. Mangan. J. G. VON SalIS. 



332 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES, 



If I had Thought. 

IF I had thought thou couldst have died, 
I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side, 
That thou couldst mortal be : 
It never through my mind had past 

The time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 
And thou shouldst smile no more ! 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 't will smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook. 

That I must look in vain ! 
But when I speak — thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er leftst unsaid ; 
And then I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 

If thou couldst stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene — 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have 

Thou seemest still my own : 
But there I lay thee in the grave — 

And I am now alone I 

I do not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, 

In thinking, too, of thee. 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn. 

And never can restore ! 

Charles Wolfe. 



CORONAZH. 333 



Coronach. 

T_T E is gone on the mountain, 
-'--'- He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drops shall borrow. 
But to us comes no cheering. 
To Duncan no morrow ! 



The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary ; 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi. 

Sage counsel in cumber. 
Red hand in the foray. 

How sound is thy slumber t 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art gone and forever ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



334 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Thoughts while ruaking the Grave of a 
Kew-horn Child. 

ROOM, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to 
heaven ! 
Ye looked not for her yet with your soft eyes, 

watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
But lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother 1 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 

A cherub of the sky has turned away. 

One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter ! With thy birth has gushed a spring 

1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
A love — oh God ! it seemed so — that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me. 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell I 

'T is a harsh world, in which affection knows 

No place to treasure up its loved and lost 

But the foul grave ! Thou, who so late wast sleeping 

Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart. 

Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 

But it was sent thee with some tender thought. 

How can I leave thee — here ? Alas for man ! 

The herb in its humility may fall 

And waste into the bright and genial air, 



THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING A GRA VE. 335 

While we — by hands that ministered in life 
Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — 
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms. 
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 



Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
The birds are never silent that build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies — 
Robbed of her child and lonely. 'T is the work 
Of man> a dark hour, and of many a prayer. 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
The images from all the silent rooms, 
And every sight and sound peculiar to her 
Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 
The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever 
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, 
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
Look on each other cheerfully, and say : 
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven. 
And by this gate of flowers she passed away / 

Nathaniel P. Willis. 



336 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

CasGb Wappy. 

(the child's selp-chosen pet name.) 

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
Our fond, dear boy, — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come, 

Where life is joy ? 
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, 

Casa Wappy ! 
• ♦**•* 

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline. 

'Twas cloudless joy; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine, 

Beloved boy ! 
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay ; 
That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 

Earth's undefiled, 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. 

Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

We mourn for thee when blind, blank night 

The chamber fills ; 
We pine for thee when morn's first light 

Reddens the hills : 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All — to the wallflower and wild pea, 
Are changed : we saw the world through thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 



CASA WAPPy. 337 

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam, 

Of casual mirth. 
It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 

An inward birth ; 
We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 
All day we miss thee — everywhere, — 
Casa Wappy ! 



Then be to us, O dear, lost child ! 

With beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ! 
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road, 
That led thee back from man to God, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Yet 'fis sweet balm to our despair, 

Fond, fairest boy, 
That heaven is God's and thou art there 

With him in joy : 

There past are death and all its woes ; 

There beauty's stream forever flows ; 

And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Farewell, then — for awhile farewell, — 

Pride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell 

Thus torn apart. 

Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 

And dark howe'er life's night may be, 

Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 

Casa Wappy ! 

David M. Moir. 
15 



338 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



Auf Wiedersehen / (Suimner,) 

THE little gate was reached at last, 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and as she passed, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 
And said, — " au/ wiedersehen /" 



With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 

She said, — ^' auf wiedersehen P'' 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair, 

I linger in delicious pain. 
Ah, in that chamber whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. 

Thinks she, — * ' auf wiedersehen /" 

*Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

I hear, ^'^ auf wiedersehen !" 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain ; 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, — "auf wiedersehen /" 

James R. Lowell, 



PALINODE. 'AUTUMN. 339 



Falinode. {Autumn^ 

STILL thirteen years: 'tis Autumn now 
On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 
The naked trees at evening sough ; 
The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " We meet again !" 



Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, 
That now is void and dank with rain ; 

And one, — O hope more frail than foam ! 

The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — " We meet again !" 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain ; 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly — " We meet again !" 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 
Though thou in outer dark remain ; 

One sweet sad voice ennobles death, 

And still for eighteen centuries saith. 
Softly, — " Ye meet again !" 

If earth another grave must bear. 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain. 
And something whispers my despair. 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, " We meet again 1" 

Tames R. Lowell. 



340 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



After the Burial. 

YES, Faith is a goodly anchor 
When skies are sweet as a psalm ; 
It lolls at the bows so stalwart 
In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

And when over breakers to leeward 
The tattered surges are hurled, 

It may keep our head to the tempest. 
With its grip on the base of the world. 

But, after the shipwreck, tell me 

What help in its iron thews, 
Still true to the broken hawser. 

Deep down among seaweed and ooze? 

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow. 
When the helpless feet stretch out, 

And find in the deeps of darkness 
No footing so solid as doubt ; 

Then better one spar of memory, 
One broken plank of the Past, 

That our human heart may cling to. 
Though hopeless of shore at last ! 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, 
To the flesh its sweet despair, 

Its tears o'er the thin worn locket 
With its anguish of deathless hair ! 

Immortal ? I feel it and know it ; 

Who doubts it of such as she ? 
But that is the pang's very secret — 

Immortal away from me ! 



AFTER THE BURIAL. 341 

There 's a narrow ridge in the graveyard 
Would scarce stay a child in his race ; 

But to me and my thought it is wider 
Than the star-sown vague of space. 

Your logic, my friend, is perfect, 

Your moral 's most drearily true ; 
But since the earth clashed on her coffin, 

I keep hearing that, and not you. 

Console, if you will ; I can bear it ; 

'Tis a well-meant alms of breath ; 
But not all the preaching since Adam 

Has made Death other than Death. 

It is pagan : but wait till you feel it, 
That jar of our earth, that dull shock, 

When the ploughshare of deeper passion 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion in spirit ? Forgive me. 

But I, who am earthly and weak. 
Would give all my incomes from dreamland 

For her rose-leaf palm on my cheek ! 

That little shoe in the corner. 

So worn and wrinkled and brown — 
Its emptiness confutes you. 

And argues your wisdom down. 

James R. Lowell. 



11x6 Dead House. 

HERE once my step was quickened, 
Here beckoned the opening door, 
And welcome thrilled from the threshold 
To the foot it had known before. 



342 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

A glow came forth to meet me 

From the flame that laughed in the grate, 

And shadows a-dance on the ceiling. 
Danced blither with mine for a mate. 

**I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair; 

"This corner, you know, is your seat;" 
" Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender, 

"I brighten at touch of your feet." 

*' We know the practiced finger," 

Said the books, " that seems like brain ;" 

And the shy page rustled the secret 
It had kept till I came again. 

Sang the pillow, " My down once quivered 
On nightingales' throats that flew 

Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz 
To gather quaint dreams for you." 

Ah me, where the Past sowed heart's-ease. 
The Present plucks rue for us men 1 

I come back : that scar unhealing 
Was not in the churchyard then. 

But, I think, the house is unaltered, 

I will go and beg to look 
At the rooms that were once familiar 

To my life as its bed to a brook. 

Unaltered ! Alas for the sameness 
That makes the change but more ! 

*T is a dead man I see in the mirfors, 
'T is his tread that chills the floor I 

To learn such a simple lesson. 

Need I go to Paris and Rome, 
That the many make the household. 

But only one the home ? 



FRAGMENT. 343 

T was just a womanly presence, 

An influence unexpressed, 
But a rose she had worn, on my grave-sod 

Were more than long life with the rest ! 

'T was a smile, 't was a garment's rustle, 

'T was nothing that I can phrase. 
But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious. 

And put on her looks and ways. 

Were it mine, I would close the shutters, 

Like lids when the life is fled, 
And the funeral fire should wind it, 

This corpse of a home that is dead. 

For it died that autumn morning 

When she, its soul, was borne 
To lie all dark on the hillside 

That looks over woodland and corn. 

James R. Lowell. 



Fragment. 

/^^OLD in earth, and the deep snow piled above thee. 
^— ' Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee, 
Severed at last by time's all severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
Over the mountains on that northern shore. 

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover 
Thy noble heart forever, evermore ? 

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers 
From those brown hills have melted into spring; 

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering. 



344 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee 
While the world's tide is bearing me along; 

Other desires and other hopes beset mc, 

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong. 

No later light has lightened up my heaven. 
No second morn has ever shone for me ; 

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given ; 
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 

But when the days of golden dreams had perished. 
And even despair was powerless to destroy ; 

Then did I learn existence could be cherished, 
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion, 

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ; 

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down to that tomb already more than mine. 

And even yet I dare not let it languish. 

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain • 

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
How could I seek the empty world again r 

Emilv Bronte. 



An Evening Guest, 

TF, in the silence of this lonely eve, 

-'■ With the street-lamp pale flickering on the wall. 

An angel were to whisper me, " Believe — 

It shall be given thee. Call !" — whom should I call ? 

And then I were to see thee gliding in, 

Clad in known garments, that with empty fold 

Lie in my keeping, and my fingers, thin 
As thine were once, to feel in thy safe hold : 



THE PASSAGE. 345 

I should fall wiieping on thy neck, and say 

" I have so suffered since — since." — But my tears 

Would stop, remembering how thou count'st thy day, 
A day that is with God a thousand years. 

Then what are these sad days, months, years of mine. 

To thine eternity of full delight? 
What my whole life, when myriad lives divine 

May wait, each leading to a higher height ? 

I lose myself— I faint. Beloved, best. 

Let me still dream thy dear humanity 
Sits with me here, thy head upon my breast, 

And then I will go back to heaven with thee. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 



The Passage. 

MANY a year is in its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave : 
And the evening, fair as ever. 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside, 
Sat two comrades old and tried, — 
One with all a father's truth. 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

Lo, whene'er I turn mine eye 

Back upon the days gone by, 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends that closed their course before me. 



346 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

But what binds us, friend to friena. 
But that soul with soul can blend ? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, 

Take, I give it willingly ; 

For invisible to thee. 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 

LUDWIG UhLAND. 
Anonymous Translation. 



Douglas, Douglas, tender and true, 

" Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." 

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do : — 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few ; 
Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

1 never was worthy of you, Douglas, 

Not half worthy the like of you ; 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 347 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, 
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 



Footsteps of Angels. 

"\ T 7HEN the hours of Day are numbered, 

' ^ And the voices of the Night 
Wake the better soul that slumbered 
To a holy, calm delight — 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor wall — 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more ! 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 

Noble longings for the strife — 
By the roadside fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suffering bore — 

Folded their pale hands so meekly — 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the being beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven 



348 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 

Comes that messenger divine. 
Takes the vacant chair beside me. 

Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 

And she sits and gazes at me, 

With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer — 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely. 

All my fears are laid aside, 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died I 

Henry W. Longfeixow. 



Heroes. 

THE winds that once the Argo bore 
Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines : 
And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor, 

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. 
You may seek her crew on every isle 

Fair in the foam of ^gean seas ; 
But out of their rest no charm can wile 
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 

And Priam's wail is heard no more 

By windy Ilion's sea-built walls ; 
Nor great Achilles, stained with gore. 

Cries " O ye gods, 't is Hector falls 1" 



HEROES. 349 

On Ida's mount is the shining snow ; 

But Jove has gone from its brow away ; 
And red on the plain the poppies grow 

Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. 



Mother Earth, are the heroes dead ? 

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more ? 
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red 

All that is left of the brave of yore ? 
Are there none to tight as Theseus fought, 

Far in the young world's misty dawn ? 
Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught ? 

Mother Earth, are the heroes gone ? 



Gone ? In a grander form they rise ! 

Dead ? We may clasp their hands in ours, 
And catch the light of their clearer eyes. 

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. 
Wherever a noble deed is done, 

'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; 
Wherever the Right has a triumph won, 

There are the heroes' voices heard. 



Their armor rings on a fairer field 

Than the Greek or the Trojan ever trod : 
For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield. 

And the light above is the smile of God. 
So in his isle of calm delight 

Jason may sleep the years away ; 
For the heroes live, and the skies are bright. 

And the world is a braver world to-day. 

Edna Dean Proctor. 
14 



35° OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 



The Difference. 

A LITTLE river with its rock-laid banks 
In sombre elm and laughing linden dressed, 
A setting sun behind their highest ranks, 
A light skiff floating on the river's breast. 

You must remember yet that fair June day ! 

It was a time when setting suns said less 
Of speeding time and glorious things' decay. 

And vacant watches through the sunlessness; 

But more of newer sun and fresher dawn, 
More of the inner glories hinted through 

The orange gates of sunset half withdrawn, 
And burning inward as the glory grew. 

You know we talked philosophy — or thought 
We did ; and flippantly aside we threw 

All that the solemn-thoughted prophets taught. 
All that the glorious-visioned exile drew, 

The untaught record of their simple page 

Whose footsteps paced with His the morning-land, 

As rude inscriptions of a younger age, 
Unworthy of the ripe world's freer hand. 

A whiter light should rise upon the years, 
A freer wave should break on every strand. 

The New assuage the Old World's toils and tears. 
The West should tell it to the morning-land. 

But many suns since then have died in flame, 
And many skies for them been sable-clad : 

The quiet stream moves onward still the same, 
With shades to chill, and dawns to make it glad. 



MY PSALM. 35 » 

Much have we seen since then, and much outgrown ; 

The world of may-be broadens on our sight, 
And vaster grows the shadow-clothed unknown — 

And ever grander in the growing light. 

But while the world's great possible grows more, 
And wider outlooks face the eternal hills, 

A narrowing vista through the years' dull score 
Becomes the vale our straitened pathway fills. 

And suns set earlier now, and twilights have 

A shade of chill we hardly care to own, 
And thinner breaks the water's measured stave, 

And evening skies seem not so brightly sown. 

And we, apostles of the new time's youth, 
Are treading in the way our fathers trod, 

Still blest to grasp their store of well-tried truth. 
And follow in their patient path to God. 

Evangeline M. Johnson, 



My Psalm. 

I MOURN no more my vanished years; 
Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 
My heart is young again, 

The west winds blow, and singing low, 

I hear the glad streams run : 
The windows of my soul I throw 

Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope and fear ; 
But grateful take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 



352 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 

I plow no more a desert land, 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay 

Aside the toiling oar; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn. 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the autumn morn ; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through ftinged lids to heaven ; 

And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given ; 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 

The south-wind softly sigh, 
And sweet calm days in golden haze 

Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 

Rebuke an age of wrong : 
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel, 

That I the more enjoy. 

All as God wills, who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 



THE THREE VOICES, 3S3 

Enough that blessings undeserved 

Have marked my erring track ; 
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved 

His chastening turned me back — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good — 

That death seems but a covered way 

Which opens into light, 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight — 

That care and trial seem at last, 

Through Memory's sunset air. 
Like mountain ranges overpast, 

In purple distance fair — 

That all the jarring notes of life 

Seem blending in a psalm. 
And all the angles of its strife 

Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 

And so the west winds play ; 
And all the windows of my heart 

I open to the day. 

John G. Whittier. 



The Three Voices. 

'VXTHAT saith the Past to thee ? Weep ! 
^ • Truth is departed ; 
Beauty hath died like the dream of a sleep, 
Love is faint-hearted: 



354 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Trifles of sense, the profoundly unreal, 
Scare from our spirits God's holy ideal — 

So, as a funeral-bell, slowly and deep, 

So tolls the Past to thee ! Weep ! 

How speaks the Present hour ? Act ! 

Walk, upward glancing : 
So shall thy footsteps in glory be tracked, 

Slow, but advancing. 
Scorn not the smallness of daily endeavoi, 
Let the great meaning ennoble it ever; 

Droop not o'er efforts expended in vain ; 

Work, as believing that labor is gain. 

What doth the Future say ? Hope ! 

Turn thy face sunward ! 
Look where light fringes the far-rising slope — 

Day Cometh onward. 
Watch ! Though so long be the twilight delaying — 
Let the first sunbeam arise on thee praying ! 

Fear not, for greater is God by thy side 

Than armies of Satan against thee allied ! 

Anonymous. 



Messiah. 

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song — 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire 
Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies I 
The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 



MESSIAH. 355 

Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid — 
From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail ; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale, 
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
O spring to light ! auspicious babe, be born ! 
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing Spring ! 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise. 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply — 
The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ! 
Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise ! 
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ! 
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods,give way ! 
The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold — 
Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 
'T is He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm the unfolding ear; 
The dumb shall sing; the lame his crutch forego, 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear— 
From every face He wipes oflf every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound. 
And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. 
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, 
14* 



3 5 6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects* 
The tender lambs He raises m His arms — 
Feeds from His hand, and in His Dosom warms: 
Thus shall mankmd His guardian care engage — 
The promised Father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ; 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er. 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
And the broad falchion in a plowshare end. 
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 
^ Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sowed shall reap the field; 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear 
New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods ; 
Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, 
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 
To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, 
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed ; 
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead. 
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead; 
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 
The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake — 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, 
And with their forked tongue shall innocently play. 

Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise I 
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 357 

In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, 
And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn. 
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
O'erflow thy courts ; the Light Himself shall shine 
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
But fixed His word. His saving power remains ; 
Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 

Alexander Pope, 



A Christmas Hymn, 

TT was the calm and silent night ! 
-'■ Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 
And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars — 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mais 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign. 
In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago. 



SS^ OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

*T was in the calm and silent night ! 

The Senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away. 

In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago ' 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor; 
A streak of light before him lay. 

Fallen through a half-shut stable door 
Across his path. He passed — for naught 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought- - 

The air how calm, and cold, and thin, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

Oh, strange indifference ! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 
The earth was still — but knew not why ; 

The world was listening, unawares 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever ! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 

Man's doom was linked no more to sever- 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now I 



RING OUT, WILD. BELLS. 359 

The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given : 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

Alfred Dommett 



Ring Out, Wild Bells. 

RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night — 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymesj 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 



36o OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite : 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Epiphany. 

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning 1 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid : 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning, o 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining. 
Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall ; 

Angels adore him in slumber reclining. 
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. 

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, 

Odors of Edom, and offerings divine ? 
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean, 

Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine? 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 

Vainly with gifts would his favor secure ; 

Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 361 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid: 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Bishop Heber. 



The Star of Bethlehem. 

WHEN, marshaled on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
One star alone of all the train 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks 

From every host, from every gem ; 
But one alone a Saviour speaks. 

It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode, 
The storm was loud, the night was dark, 

The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 
The wmd that tossed my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 

Death-struck — I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose. 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all ; 

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
And through the storm, and danger's thrall^ 

It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 

I '11 sing, first in night's diadem, 
Forever and for evermore, 

The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem ! 

Henry Kirke White. 



362 O UR POE TICAL FA VORITES. 



The Crucifixion, 

BOUND upon the accursed tree, 
Faint and bleeding — who is He ? 
By the eyes so pale and dim, 
Streaming blood and writhing limb j 
By the flesh with scourges torn. 
By the crown of twisted thorn, 
By the side so deeply pierced, . 
By the baffled, burning thirst, 
By the drooping, death-dewed brow. 
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou I 



Bound upon the accursed tree. 
Dread and awful — who is He ? 
By the sun at noonday pale, 
Shivering rocks, and rending veil ; 
By earth that trembles at his doom. 
By yonder saints who burst their tomb. 
By Eden, promised ere he died 
To the felon at his side. 
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow. 
Son of God ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou I 

Bound upon the accursed tree. 
Sad and dying — who is He? 
By the last and bitter cry. 
The ghost given up in agony ; 
By the lifeless body laid 
In the chambers of the dead ; 
By the mourners come to weep 
Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 
Crucified ! we know thee now — 
Son of Man ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou I 



THE CRUCIFIXION, 363 

Bound upon the accursed tree, 

Dread and awful — who is He ? 

By the prayer for them that slew— 

" Lord ! they know not what they do I" 

By the spoiled and empty grave, 

By the souls he died to save. 

By the conquests he hath won, 

By the saints before his throne. 

By the rainbow round his brow. 

Son of God ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou ! 

Henry Hart Milman. 



The Crucifixion. 

From the Italian. 

T ASKED the heavens: "What foe to God hath done 
^■*-^ This unexampled deed?" The heavens exclaim, 
'"Twas man, and we in horror snatched the sun 

From such a spectacle of guilt and shame !" 
I asked the sea ; the sea in fury boiled, 

And answered with his voice of storm, " 'T was man ; 
My waves in panic at the crime recoiled. 

Disclosed the abyss, and from the center ran !" 
I asked the earth ; the earth replied, aghast, 

" 'T was man, and such strange pangs my bosom rent, 
That still I groan and shudder at the past !" 

To man, gay, smiling, thoughtless man I went. 
And asked him next ; he turned a scornful eye. 
Shook his proud head, and deigned me no reply. 

James Montgomery. 



3^4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Whence and Whither. 

THE BEION OP LAW. 

'Eripa fxiv r/ t(3v kTtovpavioov do^a, kripa 
di 77 rcSy tTtiytioov. 

nPHE dawn went up the sky, 
-■- Like any other day ; 
And they had only come 

To mourn Him where he lay : 
"We ne'er have seen the law 

Reversed 'neath which we lie ; 
Exceptions none are found, 
And when we die, we die. 
Resigned to fact we wander hither, 
We ask no more the whence and whither. 

" Vain questions ! from the first 

Put, and no answer found. 
He binds us with the chain 

Wherewith himself is bound. 
From west to east the earth 

Unrolls her primal curve ; 
The sun himself were vexed 

Did she one furlong swerve : 
The myriad years have whirled us hither, 
But tell not of the whence and whither. 

" We know but what we see — 

Like cause and like event : 
One constant force runs on 

Transmuted, but unspent. 
Because they are, they are ; 

The mind may frame a plan ; 
'Tis from herself she draws 

A special thought for man : 
The natural choice that brought us hither. 
Is silent on the whence and whither. 



WHENCE AND WHITHER. 1^^% 

" If God there be, or gods, 

Without our science lies; 
We cannot see or touch, 

Measure or analyze. 
Life is but what we live, 

We know but what we know. 
Closed in these bounds alone 

Whether God be, or no : 
The self-moved force that bore us hither 
. Reveals no whence, and hints no whither. 

" Ah, which is likelier truth, 

That lav/ should hold its way, 
Or, for this one of all, 

Life re-assert her sway ? 
Like any other morn 

The sun goes up the sky ; 
No crisis marks the day, 

For when we die, we die. ' 

No fair fond hope allures us hither : 
The law is dumb on whence and whither." 

— Then wherefore are ye come ? 

Why watch a worn-out corse ? 
Why weep a ripple past 

Down the long stream of force ? 
If life is that which keeps 

Each organism whole. 
No atom may be traced 

Of what ye thought the soul : 
It had its term of passage hither, 
But knew no whence, and knows no whither. 

The forces that were Christ 

Have ta'en new forms and fled ; 
The common sun goes up. 

The dead are with the dead. 



366 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

'Twas but a phantom life 

That seemed to think and will, 
Evolving self and God 
By some subjective skill, 
That had its day of passage hither. 
But knew no whence, and knows no whither. 

If this be all in all ; 

Life, but one mode of force ; 
Law, but the plan which binds 

The sequences in course : 
All essence, all design 

Shut out from mortal ken, — 
We bow to Nature's fate, 
And drop the style of men ! 
The summer dust the wind wafts hither, 
Is not more dead to whence and whither. 

But if our life be life, 

And thought, and will, and love 
Not vague unconscious airs 

That o'er wild harp-strings move ; 
If consciousness be aught 

Of all it seems to be. 
And souls are something more 

Than lights that gleam and flee. 
Though dark the road that leads us thither, 
The heart must ask its whence and whither. 

To matter or to force 

The All is not confined ; 
Beside the law of things 

Is set the law of mind ; 
One speaks in rock and star, 

And one within the brain ; 
In unison at times. 

And then apart again : 
And both in one have brought us hither. 
That we may know our whence and whither. 



WHENCE AND WHITHER. 3^7 

The sequences of law 

We learn through mind alone ; 
'T is only through the soul 

That aught we know is known : — 
With equal voice she tells 

Of what we touch and see 
Within these bounds of life, 
And of a life to be ; 
Proclaiming One who brought us hither, 
And holds the keys of whence and whither. 

O shrine of God that now 

Must learn itself with awe ! 
O heart and soul that move 

Beneath a living law ! 
That which seemed all the rule 

Of nature, is but part ; 
A larger, deeper law 

Claims also soul and heart. i 

The force that framed and bore us hither 
Itself — ^at once is whence and whither. 

We may not hope to read 

Or comprehend the whole 
Or of the law of things, 

Or of the law of soul : 
E'en in the eternal stars 

Dim perturbations rise ; 
And all the searcher's search 

Does not exhaust the skies : 
He who has framed and brought us hither 
Holds in his hands the whence and whither 

He in his science plans 

What no known laws foretell ; 
The wandering fires and fixed 

Alike are miracle : 



368 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

The common death of all. 

The life renewed above. 

And both within the scheme 

Of that all-circling love. 

The seeming chance that cast us hither. 

Accomplishes his whence and whither. 

Then, though the sun go up 

His beaten azure way, 
God may fulfill his thought. 

And bless his world to-day ; 
Beside the law of things 

The law of mind enthrone, 
And, for the hope of all. 
Reveal himself in one ; 
Himself the way that leads us thither, 
The All-in-all, the Whence and Whither. 

Francis T. Palgravx. 



The Ascension. 

/~\UR Lord is risen from the dead, 
^-^ Our Jesus is gone up on high ; 
The powers of hell are captive led. 
Dragged to the portals of the sky. 

There his triumphal chariot waits, 
And angels chant the solemn lay ! 

** Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates ! 
Ye everlasting doors, give way ! 

" Loose all your bars of massy light, 
And wide unfold the ethereal scene ; 

He claims these mansions as his right ; — 
Receive the King of Glory in 1" 



GETHSEMANE. 3^9 

Who is the King of Glory, who ? — 
The Lord that all our foes o'ercame : 

The world, sin, death, and hell o'erthrew, 
And Jesus is the Conqueror's name. 

Lo ! his triumphal chariot waits, 

And angels chant the solemn lay ; 
** Lift up your heads, ye heavenly gates I 

Ye everlasting doors, give way !" 

Who is the King of Glory, who ? — 

The Lord of boundless power possess^ j 

The King of saints and angels too ; 
God over all, forever blessed ! 

Charles Wesley, 



Gethsemane. 

I READ how, in Gethsemane, 
The suffering Saviour bowed the knee : 
My tears fell fast upon the book, — 
It was so grandly sad to read 
Of Him, in darkness, grief, and need — 
It seemed to me that I could look 

Through all thy shades, Gethsemane, 
And see the One who died for me. 

I too had my Gethsemane : 

The hour of darkness came to me, 

And none was by to watch or aid : 
In grief and fear I drank, alas, 
The bitter cup that would not pass — 
Then like my Lord I knelt and prayed, 
And in my own Gethsemane 
I found the One who died for me. 

William O. Stoddard. 



370 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Pilgrimage. 

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet. 
My staffe of faith to walk upon, 
My scrip of joye — immortal diet — 

My bottle of salvation, 
My gown of glory, hope's true gage ; 
— And thus I take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer, 
While my soul, like peaceful palmer, 
Travelleth towards the land of heaven ; 
Other balm will not be given. 

Over the silver mountains. 
Where spring the nectar fountains. 
There will I kiss 
The bowle of blisse, 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken-hill : 
My soul will be a-dry before ; 
But after that will thirst no more. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



Litany. 



SAVIOUR, when in dust to Thee 
Low we bow the adoring knee ; 
When, repentant, to the skies 
Scarce we lift our weeping eyes — 
O, by all Thy pains and woe 
Suffered once for man below, 
Bending from Thy throne on high. 
Hear our solemn Litany 1 



LITANY. 37J 

By Thy helpless infant years; 
By Thy Hfe of want and tears ; 
By Thy days of sore distress, 
In the savage wilderness ; 
By the dread, mysterious hour 
Of the insulting tempter's power — 
Turn, O turn a favoring eye — 
Hear our solemn Litany 1 



By the sacred griefs that wept 
O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
By the boding tears that flowed 
Over Salem's loved abode ; 
By the anguished sigh that told 
Treachery lurked within the fold — 
From Thy seat above the sky 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thine hour of dire despair; 
By Thine agony of prayer ; 
By the cross, the wail, the thorn, 
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn; 
By the gloom that veiled the skies 
O'er the dreadful sacrifice — 
Listen to our humble cry: 
Hear our solemn Litany ! 

By Thy deep expiring groan ; 
By the sad sepulchral stone; 
By the vault whose dark abode 
Held in vain the rising God ! 
O ! from earth to heaven restored. 
Mighty, reascended Lord — 
Listen, listen to the cry 
Of our solemn Litany ! 

Sir Robert Grant. 
15 



372 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Stranger. 

A POOR wayfaring man of grief 
•^^- Hath often crossed me on my way. 
Who sued so humbly for relief 

That I could never answer " Nay." 
I had not power to ask his name, 
Whither he went, or whence he came ; 
Yet there was something in his eye 
That won my love, — I knew not why. 

Once, when my scanty meal was spread. 
He entered. Not a word he spake. 

Just perishing for want of bread, 

I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, 

And ate ; — but gave me part again. 

Mine was an angel's portion then ; 

For while I fed with eager haste, 

That crust was manna to my taste. 

I spied him where a fountain burst 

Clear from the rock ; his strength was gene; 
The heedless water mocked his thirst ; 

He heard it, saw it hurrying on. 
I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup. 
Dipped, and returned it running o'er; 
I drank and never thirsted more. 

'T was night ; the floods were out, — it blew 

A winter hurricane aloof; 
I heard his voice abroad, and flew 

To bid him welcome to my roof; 
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest — 
Laid him on my own couch to rest ; 
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed 
Tn Eden's garden while I dreamed. 



THE STRANGER. 373 

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 
I found him by the highway side ; 

I roused his pulse, brought back his breath- 
Revived his spirit, and suppHed 

Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was healed. 

I had, myself, a wound concealed — 

But from that hour forgot the smart, 

And peace bound up my broken heart. 



In prison I saw him next, condemned 
To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 

The tide of lying tongues I stemmed. 

And honored him midst shame and scorn. 

My friendship's utmost zeal to try. 

He asked if I for him would die ; 

The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, 

But the free spirit cried, " I will." 



Then in a moment, to my view, 

The stranger darted from disguise ; 
The tokens in his hands I knew— 

My Saviour stood before mine eyes. 
He spake ; and my poor name he named — 
"Of Me thou hast not been ashamed; 
These deeds shall thy memorial be ; 
Fear not ! thou didst them unto me." 

James Montgomery. 



^7A■ OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 



The Seraph throwing off his Disguise. 

T T /"ILD sparkling rage inflames the Father's eyes, 
* * He bursts the bonds of fear, and madly cries, 
" Detested wretch !" — but scarce his speech began, 
When the strange partner seemed no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet, 
His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair. 
Celestial odors fill the empurpled air : 
While wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
And moves in all the majesty of light ! 

Thomas Parnell. 



Christus Consolator. 

2vv XptdrcS — TtoXXcp uaXXov xpEiddov. 

T T OPE of those that have none other, 
-^ -•■ Left for life by father, mother, 
All their dearest lost or taken, 
Only not by thee forsaken ; 
Comfort thou the sad and lonely. 
Saviour dear, for thou canst only. 

When the glooms of night are o'er us, 
Satan in his strength before us : 
When despair, and doubt, and terror 
Drag the blinded heart to error. 
Comfort thou the poor and lonely. 
Saviour dear, for thou canst only. 



"HOW AMIABLE ARE THY TABERNACLES." 375 

By thy days of earthly trial, 
By thy friend's foreknown denial, 
By thy cross of bitter anguish, 
Leave not thou thy lambs to languish ; 
' Comforting the weak and lonely. 
Lead them in thy pastures only. 

Sick with hope deferred, or yearning 
For the never-now-returning. 
When the glooms of grief o'ershade us, 
Thou hast known, and thou wilt aid us ! 
To thine own heart take the lonely. 
Leaning on thee only, only. 

Francis T. Palgrave. 



How amiable are Thy Tahemacles.'* 

PLEASANT are Thy courts above 
In the land of light and love : 
Pleasant are thy courts below 
In this land of sin and woe. 
Oh my spirit longs and faints 
For the converse of Thy saints, 
For the brightness of Thy face, 
For Thy fullness, God of grace ! 

Happy birds, that sing and fly 
Round Thy altars, O Most High I 
Happier souls that find a rest 
In a Heavenly Father's breast ! 
Like the wandering dove that found 
No repose on earth around, 
They can to their ark repair. 
And enjoy it ever there. 



376 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Happy souls ! their praises flow 
Even in this vale of woe : 
Waters in the desert rise, 
Manna feeds them from the skies : 
On thry go from strength to strength, 
Till they reach Thy throne at length. 
At Thy feet adoring fall, 
Who hast led them safe through all. 

Lord, be mine this praise to win 
Guide me through a world of sin : 
Keep me by Thy saving grace ; 
Give me at Thy side a place ; 
Sun and Shield alike Thou art ; 
Guide and guard my erring heart ! 
Grace and glory flow from Thee : 
Shower, O shower them, Lord, on me ! 

Henry F. Lyte. 



The Heart's Song. 

r N the silent midnight watches, 

-■- List — thy bosom-door ! 

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 

Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 't is thy pulse's beating; 

'T is thy heart of sin — 
'T is thy Saviour knocks, and crieth : 

Rise, and let me in ! 



Death comes down with reckless footstep 

To the hall and hut, 
Think you Death will stand a-knocking 

Where the door is shut ? 



CHRIST'S CALL TO THE SOUL. 377 

Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth, 

But thy door is fast ! 
Grieved, away thp Saviour goeth : 

Death breaks in at last. 



Then *t is thine to stand entreating 

Christ to let thee in : 
At the gate of heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 
Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, 

Hast thou then forgot ? 
Jesus waited long to know thee, — 

But he knows thee not ! 

Arthur C. Coxe. 



Christ's Call to the Soul. 

FAIR soul, created in the primal hour. 
Once pure and grand, 
And for whose sake I left my throne and pov^er 

At God's right hand. 
By this sad heart pierced through because I love thee, 
Let love and mercy to contrition move thee I 



Cast off the sins thy holy beauty veiling, 

Spirit divine ! 
Vain against thee the host of hell assailing; 

My strength is thine ! 
Drink from my side the cup of life immortal, 
And love will lead thee back to heaven's portal ! 



37'"^ OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

I for thy sake was pierced with many sorrows, 

And bore the cross, 
Yet heeded not the galling of the arrows, 

The shame and loss ; 
So faint not thou, whate'er the burden be : 
But bear it bravely ev'n to Calvary ! 

Jerome Savonarola. 

Anonymous Translation. 



Consolation. 

PILGRIM burdened with thy sin, 
Come the way to Zion's gate, 
There, till mercy lets thee in. 

Knock, and weep, and watch, and wait. 
Knock ! — He knows the sinner's cry; 

Weep ! — He loves the mourner's tears ; 
Watch ! — for saving grace is nigh ; 
Wait — till heavenly light appears. 

Hark ! it is the Bridegroom's voice : 

Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest ; 
Now within the gate rejoice, 

Safe, and sealed, and bought, and blest. 
Safe — from all the lures of vice. 

Sealed — by signs the chosen know. 
Bought by love, and life the price, 

Blest — the mighty debt to owe. " 

Holy pilgrim ! what for thee 

In a world like this remain ? 
From thy guarded breast shall flee 

Fear, and shame, and doubt, and pain. 
Fear — the hope of heaven shall fly, 

Shame — from glory's view retire, 
Doubt — in certain rapture die. 

Pain — in endless bliss expire. 

George Craube. 



''LOOKED UPON PETERS 379 



'Christ turned and looked upon Peter* 

T THINK that look of Christ might seem to say — 
-*- " Thou, Peter ! art thou then a common stone, 
Which I at last must break my heart upon, 
For all God's charge to his high angels may 
Guard my foot better ? Did I yesterday 
Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run 
Quick to deny me 'neath the morning sun ? 
And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray ? 
The cock crows coldly. Go, and manifest 
A late contrition, but no bootless fear ! 
For when thy deadly need is bitterest, 
Thou shall not be denied as I am here ; 
My voice, to God and angels, shall attest — 
Because I knew this man let him be clear !" 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



"Looked upon Peter." 

"\T THAT might it be that glance could paint? 

* ' Did one deep-touching impress blend 
The more than sage — the more than saint — 
The more than sympathizing friend ? 

Was it that lightning thought retraced 
Some hallowed hour beneath the moon ? 

Or walk, or converse high, that graced 
The temple's columned shade at noon? 

Say, did that face, to memory's eye, 
With gleams of Tabor's glory shine ? 

Or did the dews of agony 

Still rest upon that brow divine ? 
15* 



)&o OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

I know not ; — but I know a will 

That, Lord ! might frail as Peter's be ! 

A heart that had denied thee still, 
E'en now — without a look from thee ! 

Samuel M. Warino* 



Prayer. 



PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire 
Uttered or unexpressed ; 
The motion of a hidden fire 
That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, — 

The falling of a tear; — 
The upward glancing of an eye 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can try ; 
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath— 

The Christian's native air ; 
His watchword at the gates of death. 

He enters Heaven with prayer. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways, 
While angels on their wings rejoice, 

And cry, — "Behold, he prays I" 

The saints in prayer appear as one 
In word, and deed, and mind. 

When with the Father, Spirit, Son, 
Sweet fellowship they find. 



STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. 381 

Nor prayer is made on earth alone: — 

The Holy Spirit pleads, — 
And Jesus on the eternal throne, 

For sinners intercedes. 

O Thou, by whom we come to God ! 

The Life— the Truth— the Way ! 
The path of prayer thyself hast trod : 

Lord, teach us how to pray ! 

James Montgomery. 



Strive, Wait, and Pray. 

STRIVE : yet I do not promise 
The prize you dream of to-day 
Will not fade when you think to grasp it. 

And melt in your hand away ; 
But another and holier treasure. 

You would now perchance disdain, 
Will come when your toil is over. 
And pay you for all your pain. 

Wait : yet I do not tell you 

The hour you long for now, 
Will not come with its radiance vanished. 

And a shadow upon its brow; 
Yet, far through the misty future, 

With a crown of starry light, 
An hour of joy you know not 

Is winging her silent flight. 

Pray : though the gift you ask for 
May never comfort your fears — 

May never repay your pleading — 
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears ; 



382 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES, 

An answer, not that you long for, 
But diviner will come one day ; 

Your eyes are too dim to see it. 
Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



Incornpleteness. 

"XT OTHING resting in its own completeness, 
-L ^ Can have worth or beauty : but alone 
Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness, 
Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. 

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning. 
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours ; 

But is hidden in her tender leaning 

Toward the summer's richer wealth of flowers. 

Dawn is fair, because her mists fade slowly 
Into day which floods the world with light; 

Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy, 
Just because it ends in starry night. 

Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
Toward a truer, deeper Life above : 

Human love is sweetest when it leadeth 
To a more divine and perfect love. 

Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow, 
From strife that in a far-off future lies ; 

And angel glances veiled now by life's sorrow. 
Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. 

Learn the mystery of progression duly : 
Do not call each glorious change decay; 

But know we only hold our treasures truly. 
When it seems as if they passed away. 



THE GIFTS OF GOD. 383 

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness; 

In that want their beauty lies ; they roll 
Toward some infinite depth of love and sweetness, 

Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



The Gifts of God. 

WHEN God at first made man. 
Having a glass of blessings standing by, 
" Let us," said he, " pour on him all we can ; 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
Contract into a span. 



So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure; 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

" For if I should," said he, 
"Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
He would adore my gifts instead of me. 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature ; 

So both should losers be. 



" Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness; 
Let him be sick and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to my breast." 

George Herbert. 



i?4 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



Imperfection of Human Sywupatliy, 

WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, 
Since all alone, so heaven has willed, we die ; 
Nor e'en the tenderest heart, and next our own, 
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh ? 

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe, 
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart; 

Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow, 

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. 

And well it is for us our God should feel 
Alone our secret throbbings ; so our prayer 

May readier spring to heaven, nor spend its zeal 
On cloud-born idols of this lower air. 

For if one heart in perfect sympathy 

Beat with another, answering love for love, 

Weak mortals all entranced on earth would lie, 
Nor listen for those purer strains above. 

Or what if Heaven for once its searching light 
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all 

The rude bad thoughts that in our bosoms' night 
Wander at large, nor heed love's gentle thrall? 

Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place ? 

As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, 
A mother's arm a serpent should embrace ; 

So might we friendless live, and die unwept. 



Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn. 

Thou who canst love us, though thou read us true ; 

As on the bosom of the aerial lawn 

Melts in dim haze each coarse, ungentle hue. 



IVE ARE GROWING OLD. 385 

Thou know'st our bitterness — our joys are thine — 
No stranger thou to all our wanderings wild : 

Nor could we bear to think how every line 
Of us, thy darkened likeness and defiled. 

Stands in full sunshine of thy piercing eye, 
But that thou call'st us brethren ; sweet repose 

Is in that word — The Lord who dwells on high 
Knows all, yet loves us better than he knows. 

John Keble. 



W 



We are Growing Old. 

'E are growing old — how the thought will rise 
When a glance is backward cast 
On some long-remembered spot that lies 

In the silence of the past ! 
It may be the shrine of our early vovts, 

Or the tomb of early tears ; 
But it seems like a far-off isle to us, 
In the stormy sea of years. 

Oh wide and wild are the waves that part 

Our steps from its greenness now ; 
And we miss the joy of many a heart. 

And the light of many a brow. 
For deep o'er many a stately bark 

Have the whelming billows rolled, 
That steered with us from that early mark— 

O friends, we are growing old, — 

Old in the dimness and the dust 

Of our daily toils and cares ; 
Old in the wrecks of love and trust, 

Which our burdened memory bears. 



386 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Each form may wear to the passing gaze 
The bloom of Hfe's freshness yet, 

And beams may brighten our later days 
Which the morning never met. 

But oh, the changes we have seen 

In the far and winding way ; 
The graves that have in our path grown green, 
, And the locks that have grown gray ! 

The winters still on our own may spare 

The sable or the gold : 
But we saw their snows upon brighter hair — 

And, friends, we are growing old ! 



We have gained the world's cold wisdom now, 

We have learned to pause and fear ; 
But where are the living founts whose flow 

Was a joy of heart to hear? 
We have '"nn the wealth of many a clime. 

And the lore of many a page : 
But where is the hope that saw in time 

But its boundless heritage ? 

Will it come again when the violet wakes, 

And the woods their youth renew ? 
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes 

When the bloom was deep and blue ; 
And our souls might joy in the spring-time then, 

But the joy was faint and cold ; 
For it never could give us the youth again 

Of hearts that are growing old. 

Frances Brown. 



SVA TCHING FOR DA WN. Z%7 



Watching for Dawn. 

As yestermorn my years have flown away ; 
But for lost youth there come no new to-morrows : 
No lure compels the drowsy joys to stay — 

No curtain quite shuts out the bat-winged sorrows. 

O my sweet youth ! Left I one fruit untasted, 
One flower not plucked on any farthest bough ? — 

Ashes for beauty, dust for fragrance, wasted : 
All that was sweetest grows most bitter now. 

Then plucked I bitter sweets, yet plucked again: 
Fool ! But, O man ! was I alone in folly ? 

Each morn renews the opium-dreamer's pain — 
Each sigh confirms the poet's melancholy. 

Self-love is mad — grows madder with indulgence : 
Angels may weep to see it strive and dare. 

Ah ! why was Heaven robbed of your effulgence, 
Swift, Byron, Shelley, Heine, Baudelaire ? 

In this dark night of mortal wretchedness 
What stars are fixed ? I see but comets gleaming; 

Without, are sounds of strife and dull distress — 
Within, I watch a candle's fitful beaming. 

Yet stars there are, like fires afar off burning — 
Still, underneath the horizon, there is day : 

Oh for more light to aid my slow discerning ! 
What can I do but watch, and weep, and pray? 

Look ! in the east appear some gleams ot morn — 
A breath of sweetness floats upon the air ; 

Now, while within my spirit hope is born, 
A still, small voice gives answer to my prayer. 



388 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

" Put out the candle, for the sun has risen ! 

All other lights, above, below, grow dim ; 
Go, Soul ! like Paul and Silas, from thy prison ; 

Christ hath redeemed thee — be complete in Him." 

Anonymous. 



The Return of Youth. 

MY friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 
For thy fair youthful years, too swift of flight ; 
Thou musest with wet eyes upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light, — 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong. 

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep: 
A path, thick-set with changes and decays, 

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage. 

Leave, one by one, thy side ; and, waiting near, 
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age, — 

Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear. 

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, 

Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die ; 
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn. 

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; — 
Waits like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, 

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; 
Waits like the vanished Spring, that slumbering bides 

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 



LABOR AND REST. 389 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 

On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet 
Than when at first he took thee by the hand, 

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. 
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 

Life's early glory to thine eyes again ; 
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ? 
Comes there not through the silence, to thine ear, 

A gentle rustling of the morning gales ? 
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore. 

Of streams that water banks forever fair; 
And voices of the loved ones gone before. 

More musical in that celestial air? 

William C. Bryant. 



Labor and Rest. 

npWO hands upon the breast, 
J- And labor's done ; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest, 

The race is run ; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut. 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute, 

And wrath at peace ! — 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot,- 
God in his mercy answereth not. 

Two hands to work addressed 

Aye for his praise ; 
Two feet that never rest, 

Walking his ways; 



390 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Two eyes that look above, 

Still through all tears ; 
Two lips that breathe but love, 

Nevermore fears, 
So pray we afterward low on our knees ; — 

Pardon those erring prayers ! 
Father, hear these ! 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 



God. 

' ' Whom have I in Heaven but Thee ?" 

I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth ; 
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good ; 
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse ; she gives me food ; 

But what 's a creature, Lord, compared with thee ? 
And what's my mother or my nurse to me ? 



I love the air ; her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 

Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh, 

And with their polyphonian notes dehght me : 

But what's the air, or all the sweets that she 

Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 



I love the sea ; she is my fellow-creature, 

My careful purveyor : she provides me store; 

She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; 

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore ; 

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee. 
What is the ocean, or her wealth, to me ? 



THE SOUL. 39' 

To Heaven's high city I direct my journey. 

Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye; 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky ; 

But what is Heaven, just God, compared to thee? 
Without thy presence, Heaven's no Heaven to me. 

Without thy presence, earth gives no refection ; 
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure ; 
Without thy presence, air's a rank infection; 
Without thy presence, Heaven itself 's no pleasure. 
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee. 
What's earth, or sea, or air, or Heaven to me ? 

Francis Quarles. 



The Soul. 

AGAIN, how can she but immortal be, 
When with the motions of both will and wit, 
She still aspireth to eternity. 

And never rests till she attain to it ? 

Water in conduit-pipes can rise no higher 

Than the well-head from whence it first doth spring; 

Then since to Eternal God she doth aspire, 
She cannot but be an eternal thing. 

" All moving things to other things do move 

Of the same kind, which shows their nature such ;" 

So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above, 
Till both their proper elements do touch. 

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth 
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins. 

From out her womb at last doth take a birth. 
And runs a lymph along the grassy plains. 



592 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land 
From whose soft side she first did issue make ; 

She tastes all places, turns to every hand, 
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake. 

Yet Nature so her streams doth lead and carry. 
As that her course doth make no final stay. 

Till she herself unto the ocean marry, 
Within whose watery bosom first she lay. 

E'en so the soul, which in this earthly mould 
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse. 

Because at first she doth the earth behold. 
And only this material world she views. 

At first her mother Earth she holdeth dear. 
And doth embrace the world and worldly things ; 

She flies close by the ground and hovers here. 
And mounts not up with her celestial wings : 

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth agree ; 

She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
She cannot in this world contented be. 

For who did ever yet in honor, health. 
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? 

Who ever ceased to wish, when he had wealth ? 
Or, having wisdom, was not- vexed in mind ? 

Then as a bee which among weeds doth fall. 

Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay,- 

She lights on that and this, and tasteth all, 

But pleasod with none, doth rise and soar away — 

So, when the soul finds here no true content. 
And like Noah's dove can no sure footing take. 

She doth return from whence she first was sent. 
And flies to Him that first her wings did make. 



THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH. 393 

So, while the virgin soul on earth cloth stay, 
She, wooed and tempted in ten thousand ways, 

By these great powers which on the earth bear sway. 
The wisdom of the world, wealth, pleasure, praise 

With these sometimes she doth her time beguile, 

These do by fibs her fantasy possess ; 
But she distastes them all within a while. 

And in the sweetest finds a tediousness : 

But if upon the world's Almighty King 

She once doth fix her humble loving thought, 

Who, by his picture drawn in everything. 
And sacred messages, her love has sought : 

Of him she thinks she cannot think too much; 

The honey tasted still, is ever sweet ; 
The pleasure of her ravished thought is such, 

As almost here she with her bliss doth meet. 

But when in heaven she shall his essence see. 
This is her sovereign good and perfect bliss : 

Her longings, wishes, hopes, all finished be, 
Her joys are full, her motions rest in this. 

There is she crowned with garlands of content ; 

There doth she manna eat, and nectar drink ; 
That presence doth such high delights present 

As never tongue could speak, nor heart could think 

Sir John Davies. 



T}%e spacious Firmcnnent on high. 

THE spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky. 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 



394 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display, 
And pubhshes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
And nightly to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
**The hand that made us is divine!" 

Joseph Addison. 



Son-dayes. 

BRIGHT shadows of true rest ! some shoots of blisse ; 
Heaven once a week : 
The next world's gladnesse prepossest in this ; 

A day to seek : 
Eternity in time : the steps by which 

We climb above all ages : lamps that light 
Man through his heap of dark days : and the rich 
And full redemption of the whole week's flight 1 



THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE 395 

The pulleys unto headlong man : time's bower; 

The narrow way ; 
Transplanted Paradise : God's walking houre : 

The cool o' the day ! 

The creature's jubilee ; God's parle with dust: 

Heaven here ; man on those hills of myrrh and flowres ; 

Angels descending ; the returns of trust; 
A gleam of glory after six-days-showres ! 

The Churches love-feasts: time's prerogative, 

And interest • 
Deducted from the whole : the combs and hive, 

And home of rest ; 
The milky-way chalkt out with suns ; a clue. 

That guides through erring homes ; and in full story, 
A taste of heaven on earth : the pledge and cue 
Of a full feast ; and the out-courts of glory. 

Henry Vaughan. 



Tlze Spiritual Teirvple, 

" And the honge, when it was in building, was built of etone made ready 
before it was hronglit thither ; so tliaL there was neither hammer nor axe 
nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building." — 1 Kings, 
7i. 7. See aloo chap. v. 7-18. 

AND whence, then, came these goodly stones 'twas 
Israel's pride to raise, 
The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days ; 
In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendor bright, 
Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of 
night ? 

From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was 

brought. 
In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains 

wrought ; 

16 



396 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing 

rocks, 
There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, un- 

shapen blocks. 



Thence polished, perfected, complete, each fitted to its 

place, 
For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base. 
They bore them o'er the waves that rolled their billowy swell 

between 
The shores of Tyre's imperial priSe and Judah's hills of 

green. 



With gradual toil the work went on, through days and 

months and years. 
Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen 

tears ; 
And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose, — 
Fit dwelling for the God of Peace ! a temple of repose 1 



Brethren in Christ ! to holier things the simple type apply; 

Our God himself a temple builds, eternal and on high. 

Of souls elect ; their Zion there — that world of light and 

bliss ; 
Their Lebanon — the place of toil — of previous moulding — 

this. 



From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he 

hews 
The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose : 
Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to 

shine. 
Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine. 



THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE. 397 

Oh, glorious process ! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, 

meek ; 
See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened 

cheek : 
Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrcw some idol 
' fond ; 

Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender 

bond. 

Behold he prays whose lips were sealed in silent scorn 

before ; 
Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door ; 
Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past ; 
Oh ! for more mouldings of the hand that works a change so 

vast ! 

Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God 

matured, — 
What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes 

endured ! * 

But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it 

gave. 
Ere Jesus bore his servant home, across the darksome wave ? — 

Home to the place his grace designed that chosen soul to fill. 
In the bright temple of the saved, " upon his holy hill ;" 
Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines 

above. 
Whose stones shall never be displaced — set in redeeming 

love. 

Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away. 
Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array ; 
And thus, thine image on us stamped, transport us to the 

shore. 
Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more. 

J. T. 



398 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



Soul and Body. 

POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Foiled by those rebel powers that thee an ay 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth. 

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 

And let that pine, to aggravate thy store ! 
By terms divine in selling homes of dross ! 

Within be fed, without be rich no more ! 
So shalt thou feed on death that feeds on men, 
And death once dead, there's no more dying then, 

William Shakespeare, 



The Lord the Good Shepherd. 

nPHE Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know ; 
-^ I feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest ; 
He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow, 

Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed 

Through the valley and shadow of death though I stray, 
Since thou art my guardian, no evil I fear; 

Thy rod shall defend me, thy staff be my stay ; 
No harm can befall with my Comforter near. 

In the midst of affliction my table is spread ; 

With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth o'er; 
With perfume and oil thou anointest my head ; 

O ! what shall I ask of thy providence more ? 



O SAVIOUR, WHOSE MERCY. 399 

Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God ! 

Still follow my steps till I meet thee above : 
I seek, by the path which my forefathers trod 

Through the land of their sojourn, thy kingdom of love 

James Montgomerv. 



Saviour! whose Mercy. 

O SAVIOUR ! whose mercy, severe in its kindness, 
Hath chastened my wanderings and guided my way. 
Adored be the power that illumined my blindness, 
And weaned me from phantoms that smiled to betray. 

Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair, 
I followed the rainbow, I caught at the toy ; 

And still in displeasure thy goodness was there, 
Disappointing the hope and defeating the joy. 

The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below ; 

The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam ; 
Sweet whispered the breeze — but it whispered of woe; 

And bitterness flowed in the soft-flowing stream. 

So cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, 

I turned to the refuge thy pity displayed ; 
And still did this eager and credulous heart 

Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade. 

I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven 

Would be bright as the summer, and glad as the morn :- 

Thou show'dst me the path ; it was dark and uneven, 
All rugged with rock, and all tangle'd with thorn, 

I dreamed of celestial rewards and renown, 

I grasped at the triumph that blesses the brave ; 

I asked for the palm-branch, the robe and the crown, 
I asked — and thou show'dst me a cross and a grave ! 



400 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Subdued and instructed, at length to thy will 

My hopes and my wishes I freely resign ; 
O, give me a heart that can wait and be still, 

Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. 

There are mansions exempted from sin and from woe, 
But they stand in a region by mortals untrod ; 

There are rivers of joy, but they roll not below ; 
There is rest, but 'tis found in the bosom of God. 

Sir Robert Grant. 



" Tempted lihe as we are." 

WHEN gathering clouds around I view, 
And days are dark, and friends are few, 
On Him I lean, who not in vain 
Experienced every human pain : 
He sees my wants, allays my fears, 
And counts and treasures up my tears. 



If aught should tempt my soul to stray 

From heavenly wisdom's narrow way. 

To fly the good I would pursue, 

Or do the ill I would not do, 

Still He who felt temptation's power 

Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 



If wounded 1 )ve my bosom swell, 
Deceived by those I prized too well. 
He shall his pitying aid bestow 
Who felt on earth severer woe ; 
At once betrayed, denied, or fled. 
By those who shared his daily bread. 



" CAN FIND OUT GOD?" AO\ 

If vexing thoughts within me rise, 
And sore dismayed m y spirit dies, 
Still he who once vouchsafed to bear 
The sickening anguish of despair 
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, 
The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. 

When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, 
Which covers what was once a friend. 
And from his voice, his hand, his smile, 
Divides me for a little while, — 
Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed. 
For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead ! 

And oh, when I have safely past 
Through every conflict but the last, 
Still, still unchanging, watch beside 
My dying bed, for thou hast died ; 
Then point to realms of cloudless day, 
And wipe the latest tear away. 

Sir Robert Grant. 



" Can find out God ?" 

T CANNOT find thee ! Still on restless pinion 
■^ My spirit beats the void where thou dost dwell : 
I wander lost through all thy vast dominion. 
And shrink beneath thy Light ineffable. 

I cannot find thee ! Even when, most adoring. 
Before thy shrine I bend in lowliest prayer, 

Beyond these bounds of thought, my thought upsoaring, 
From furthest quest comes back: Thou art not there. 



32 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Yet high above the limits of my seeing, 

And folded far within the inmost heart, 
And deep below the deeps of conscious being, 

Thy splendor shineth : there, O God ! thou art. 

I cannot lose thee ! Still in thee abiding, 
The end is clear, how wide soe'er I roam ; 

The Law that holds the worlds my steps is guiding. 
And I must rest at last in thee, my home. 

Eliza Scudder. 



Faith. 

"\ T 7"E will not weep : for God is standing by us, 
* * And tears will blind us to the blessed sight : 

We will not doubt, if darkness still doth try us, 
Our souls have promise of serenest light. 

We will not faint, if heavy burdens bind us. 
They press no harder than our souls can bear; 

The thorniest way is lying still behind us. 
We shall be braver for the past despair. 

O not in doubt shall be our journey's ending ; 

Sin with its fears shall leave us at the last : 
All its best hopes in glad fulfillment blending. 

Life shall be with us when the Death is past. 

Help us, O Father ! when the world is pressing 
On our frail hearts, that faint without their friend ; 

Help us, O Father ! let thy constant blessing 
Strengthen our weakness — till the joyful end. 

W. H. HURLBURT. 



OUR SAINTS. 4«3 



Our Saints. 

FROM the eternal shadow rounding 
All unsure and starlight here, 
Voices of our lost ones sounding, 
Bid us be of heart and cheer, 
Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the inward 
ear. 

Know we not our dead are looking 

Downward, as in sad surprise. 
All our strife of words rebuking 
With their mild and earnest eyes ? 
Shall we grieve the holy angels, shall we cloud their blessed 
skies ? 

Let us draw their mantles o'er us. 
Which have fallen in our way : 
Let us do the work before us 
Calmly, bravely, while we may, 
Eie the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is not day ! 

John G. Whittier. 



*' Dum vivimus, vivamus." 

" T IVE while you live !" the epicure would say, 

-■ — ' " And seize the pleasures of the present day !" 
" Live while you live !" the sacred Preacher cries, 
"And give to God each moment as it flics !" 
Lord, in my view let both united be, 
I live in pleasure while I live to thee. 

Philip Doddridge. 
16* 



404 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Sonnet. 

MARTHA, THY MAIDEN FOOT. 

TV /T ARTHA, thy maiden foot is still so light 
^^ ^ It leaves no legible trace on virgin snows: 

And yet I ween that busily it goes 
In duty's path, from happy morn to night, 
Thy dimpled cheek is gay and softly bright 

As the fixed beauty of the mossy rose ; 

Yet will it change its hue for others' woes, 
And native red exchange for virgin white. 
Thou bear'st a name by Jesus known and loved, 

And Jesus gently did the maid reprove 

For too much haste to show her eager love : 
But blessed is she that may be so reproved : 
Be Martha still in deed, and good endeavor. 
In faith like Mary — at his feet forever. 

Hartley Coleridge. 



Tlie Chambered JVautilus. 

THIS is the ship of pearl which, poets feign, 
Sails the unshadowed main — 
The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purple wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the syren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 4^5 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl: 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell 
Where its dim-dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed. 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil : 

Still as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As' the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

Oliver W. Holmes. 



4o6 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



Haste^JVot ! Rest JVot. 

"\yl WITHOUT haste ! without rest ! 

' * Bind the motto to thy breast; 
Bear it with thee as a spell ; 
Storm or sunshine, guard it well ! 
Heed not flowers that round thee bloom. 
Bear it onward to the tomb ! 



Haste not ! Let no thoughtless deed 
Mar for aye the spirit's speed ! 
Ponder well, and know the right, 
Onward then, with all thy might I 
Haste not ! years can ne'er atone 
For one reckless action done. 



Rest not ! Life is sweeping by, 
Go and dare, before you die ; 
Something mighty and sublime 
Leave behind to conquer time I 
Glorious 'tis to live for aye, 
When these forms have passed away. 

Haste not ! rest not ! calmly wait ; 
Meekly bear the storms of fate ! 
Duty be thy polar guide ; — 
Do the right, whate'er betide ! 
Haste not ! rest not ! conflicts past, 
God shall crown thy work at last. 
Anonymous Translation. JOHANN W. VON GOETHK. 



BRINGING OUR SHEA VES WITH US. \^1 



Bringing our Sheaves ivith us. 

THE time for toil has passed, and night has come, — 
The last and saddest of the harvest eves ; 
Worn out with labor long and wearisome, 
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, 
Each laden with his sheaves. 

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain, 

Lord of the harvest ! and my spirit grieves 
That I am burdened, not so much with grain, 
As with a heaviness of heart and brain ; — 
Master, behold my sheaves ! 

Few, light, and worthless, — yet their trifling weight 

Through all my frame a weary aching leaves ; 
For long I struggled with my hopeless fate, 
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late — 
Yet these are all my sheaves. 

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat — 

Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; 

Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet 

I kneel down reverently and repeat, 
" Master, behold my sheaves !" 

I know these blossoms, clustering heavily, 
With evening dew upon their folded leaves, 

Can claim no value or utility, — 

Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be 
The glory of my sheaves. 

So do I gather strength and hope anew; 

For well I know thy patient love perceives 
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,— 
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few, 

Thou wilt accept my sheaves. 

Elizabeth Akers. 



4o3 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 



''It is more Blessed." 

GIVE ! as the morning that flows out of heaven ; 
Give ! as the waves when their channel is riven; 
Give ! as the free air and sunshine are given; 

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give : — 
Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing, 
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing, 
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing ; 

Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to live. 

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river. 

Wasting its waters, forever and ever. 

Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver; 

Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. 
Scatter thy life, as the summer showers pouring ! 
What if no bird through the pearl-rain is soaring? 
What if no blossom looks upward adoring ? 

Look to the life that was lavished for thee ! 

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses, 
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses. 
Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses. 

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. 
What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? 
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ? 
Sweetest is music with minor-keyed closes. 

Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. 

Almost the day of thy giving is over ; 

Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover, 

Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover ; 

What shall thy longing avail in the grave ? 
Give, as the henrt gives, whose fetters are breaking, 
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking. 
Soon heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking. 

Thou shalt know God, and the gift that he gave. 

Anonymous. 



THE rEACHER TAUGHT. 409 



Tlie Teacher Taught, 

O'ER wayward children wouldst thou hold firm rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces : 
Love, Hope-, and Patience, — these must be the graces. 
And in thy own heart let them first keep school! 
For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's. starry globe, and there sustains it, so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of education — Patience, Hope, and Love ! 
Methinks I see them grouped in seemly show, — 
The straitened arms upraised, — the palms aslope, — 
And robes that touching, as adown they flow, 
Distinctly blend, -like snow embossed in snow. 
O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie, 

Love, too, will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle ; and will proof derive, 
From her own life, that Hope is yet alive, 
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies. 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love ! 
Yet haply there will come a weary day. 
When, overtasked, at length. 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way, 
Then, with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
Stands the mute sister. Patience, — nothing loath ; 
And, both supportinjj, does the work of both. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



4' o OUR POE TICAL FA VORI TES. 

"My Times are in Tliy Hand* 

Psalm xsxi. 15. 

FATHER, I know that all my life 
Is portioned out for me : 
And the changes that are sure to come 

I do not fear to see ; 
But I ask thee for a present mind 
Intent on pleasing thee. 

I ask thee for a thankful love, 
Through constant watching wise, 

To greet the glad with joyful smiles. 
And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 
To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 

That hurries to and fro, 
Seeking for some great thing to do. 

Or secret thing to know ; 
I would be treated as a child. 

And guided where I go. 

Wherever in the world I am. 

In whatsoe'er estate, 
I have a fellowship with hearts. 

To keep and cultivate ; 
And a lowly work of love to do, 

For the Lord on whom 1 wan. 

So I ask thee for the daily strength, 

To none that ask denied ; 
And a mind to blend with outward thing! 

While keeping at thy side ; 
Content to fill a little space, 

If thou be glorified. 



A STRIP OF BLUE. ^\^ 

And if some things I do not ask, 

In my cup of blessing be, 
I would have my spirit filled the more 

With grateful love to thee — 
More careful than to serve thee much, 

To please thee perfectly. 

There are briers besetting every path, 

That call for patient care ; 
There is a crook in every lot, 

And an earnest need for prayer ; 
But a lowly heart that leans on thee, 

Is happy everywhere. 

In a service that thy love appoints 

There are no bonds for me ; 
For my secret heart has learned the truth 

That makes thy children free, 
And a life of self-renouncing love 

Is a life of liberty. 

Miss A. L. Waring. 



A Strip of Blue, 

I DO not own an inch of land, 
But all I see is mine — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are. 

They bring me tithes divine — 
Wild scents and subtle essences^ 

A tribute rare and free ; 
And more magnificent than all. 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity— 

A little strip of sea. 



412 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Richer am I than he who owns 

Great fleets and argosies ; 
I have a share in every ship 

Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 

Above the apple-trees. 
I freight them with my untold dreams, 

Each bears my own picked crew ; 
And nobler cargoes wait for them 

Than ever India knew — 
My ships that sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes— 

The people of the sky — 
Guests in white raiment coming down 

From Heaven, which is close by : 
I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 
So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom ! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaimed from gloom, 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 

With nothing else in sight; 
Its east and west, its north and south. 

Spread out from morn to night : 
We miss the warm, caressing shore, 

Its brooding shade and light. 
A part is greater than the whole ; 

By hints are mysteries told ; 
The fringes of eternity — 

God's sweeping garment-fold, 
In that bright shred of glimmering sea, 

I reach out for, and hold. 



77^5" CLOSING SCENE. 415 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl. 

Float in upon the mist ; 
The waves are broken precious stones — 

Sapphire and amethyst, 
Washed from celestial basement walls 

By suns unsetting kissed. • 
Out through the utmost gates of space. 

Past where the gay stars drift, 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on a vessel swift ; 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 



Here sit I, as a little child : 

The threshold of God's door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor. 
The blinding glory of the dome 

I bow my head before : 
The universe, O God, is home, 

In height or depth to me ; 
Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be ; 
Glad when is opened to my need 

Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 

Lucy Larcom. 



Tlxe Closing Scene. 

WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 
Like some tanned reaper in his hours ot ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 



4 14 OUR POE TIC A L FA VORl TES. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low, 

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the light. 

The village church -vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew — 
Crew thrice — and all was stiller than before ; 

Silent, till some replying warder blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 
Made garrulous trouble 'round her unfledged young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every light wind like a censer swung ; 

Where sung the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows, circling ever near — • 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 

Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east ; — 
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 415 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail ; 

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; 
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 

Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; 
The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers. 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there. 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 

Amid all this — the centre of the scene. 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread. 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known sorrow, — he had walked with her. 
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust ; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom. 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all; 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re- gave the sword to rest upon her wall. 

Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew 

And struck for Liberty its dying blow ; 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lif 3 a sad and tremulous tune. 



4 Id OUR POETICAL FAVCRITES 

At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed ; 

Light drooped the distaff through her hand serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



Ships at Sea. 

I HAVE ships that went to sea, 
More than fifty years ago ; 
None have yet come home to me. 

But are sailing to and fro. 
I have seen them in my sleep, 
Plunging through the shoreless deep. 
With tattered sails and battered hulls, 
While around them screamed the gulls. 
Flying low, flying low. 

I have wondered why they strayed 
From me, sailing round the world; 

And I 've said, " I 'm half afraid 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 

Great the treasures that they hold, 

Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 

While the spices that they bear. 

Fill with fragrance all the air, 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah ! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea. 
Of the waves and winds the sport. 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and with me walk. 
Cheering me with hopeful talk, 
Till I put my fears aside. 
And, contented, watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise and fall. 



SHirS AT SEA. 41: 

I have waited on the piers, 

Gazing for them down the bay, 
Days and nights for many years, 

Till I turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they land. 
Stop and ta]ce me by the hand, 
Saying, " You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all." 



So I never quite despair. 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
And some day, when skies are fair, 

Up the bay my ships will sail. 
I shall buy then all I need, — 
Prints to look at, books to read, 
Horses, wines, and works of art, - 
Everything — except a heart, 
That is lost, that is lost. 



Once, when I was pure and young, 

Richer, too, than I am now. 
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung, 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 
There was one whose heart was mine ; 
But she's something now divine. 
And though come my ships from sea, 
They can bring no heart to me 
Evermore, evermore. 

Robert B. Coffin. 



♦ i8 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES, 

Doubting Heart* 

"TTTHERE are the swallows fled? 

* ' Frozen and dead, 
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore. — 
O doubting heart ! 
Far over purple seas 
They wait in sunny ease, 
The balmy southern breeze 
To bring them to their northern homes once more. 

Why must the flowers die ? 

Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. — 
O doubting heart ! 
They only sleep below 
The soft, white, ermine snow 
While winter winds shall blow. 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 
These many days ; 
Will dreary hours never leave the earth? — 
O doubting heart ! 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky 
That soon, for spring is nigh. 
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. 

Fair hope is dead, and light 
Is quenched in night : 
What sound can break the silence of despair ? — • 
O doubting heart ! 
The sky is overcast. 
Yet stars shall rise at last, 
Brighter for darkness past. 
And Angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



GOING AND COMING 419 



Going and Coining, 

GOING— the great round Sun. 
Dragging the captive Day 
Over behind the frowning hill. 
Over beyond the bay — 
Dying: 
Coming— the dusky Night, 

Silently stealing in, 
Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch 
Where the golden-haired D^y hath beea 
• ^ Lying. 

Going— the bright, blithe Spring; 

Blossoms t how fast ye fall, 
Shooting out of your starry sky 

Into the darkness all 
BUndly ! 
Coming — the mellow days : 

Crimson and yellow leaves; 
Languishing purple and amber fruits 

Kissing the bearded sheaves 
Kindly ! 

Going — our early friends ; 

Voices we loved are dumb ; 
Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; 

Fainter the echoes come 
Ringing: 
Coming to join our march, — 

Shoulder to shoulder pressed, — 
Gray-haired veterans strike their tents 

For the far-off purple West — 
Singing I 



420 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Going — this old, old life ; 

Beautiful world ! farewell ! 
Forest and meadow ! river am hill ! 
Ring ye a loving knell 
O'er us ! 
Coming — a nobler life ; 

Coming — a better land ; 
Coming — a long, long, night ess day ; 
Coming — the grand, grand 
Chorus ! 

Edward A. Jenks. 



The Future Life. 

T T OW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
-^ -■■ The disembodied spirits of the dead. 
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread ? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain, 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ! 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ? 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past. 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 
Shall it expire with life, and be no more? 



LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 421 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 

Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, 

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky. 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name. 

The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home. 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? 

William C. Bryant. 



Lines written in a Churchyard. 

" It is good for 11? to be here. If thou wilt, let U3 make here thre> • .ber* 
nacles ; oue for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." 



M 



ETHINKS it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom r 
Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; 
But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom 
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no ! 
Affrighted he shrinketh away ; 

For see. they would pen him below 
In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

17 



422 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets 
Tlie charms which she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore. 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride ? 
To the trappings which dizen the proud? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shioud. 

To Riches ? Alas, 't is in vain ! 
Who hid, in their turns have been hid: 

The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. 



To the pleasures which Mirth can afford. 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheefi 
And none but the worm is a reveler here. 



Shall we build to Affection and Love ? 
Ah no ! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above. 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side. 
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow? — the dead cannot grieve ; 
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 

Which compassion itself could relieve. 
Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear ; 
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. 



SHALL I FEAR, O EARTH, THY BOSOM? 4^3 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? 
Ah no ! for his empire is known, 

And here there are trophies enow ! 
Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone. 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build. 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled; 
And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. 

Herbert Knowles. 



Shall I Fear, Earth, thy Bosom ? 

SHALL I fear. O earth, thy bosom ? 
Shrink and faint to lay me there, 
Whence the fragrant lovely blossom 
Springs to gladden earth and air ? 

Whence the tree, the brook, the river, 

Soft clouds floating in the sky. 
All fair things come, whispering ever 

Of the love divine on high ? 

Yea, whence One arose victorious 

O'er the darkness of the grave, 
His strong arm revealing, glorious 

In its might divine to save ? 

No, fair Earth ! a tender mother 

Thou hast been, and yet canst be ; 
And through him, my Lord and Brother, 

Sweet shall be my rest in thee ! 

Thomas Davis. 



|24 OUR POETICAL hAVORITES. 



To the Southern Cross. 

SWEET Empress of the Southern sea, 
Hail to thy loveliness once more ! 
Thou gazest mournfully on me, 
As mindful we have met before ! 



When first I saw the Polar Star 
Go down behind the silver sea, 

And greeted thy mild light from far, 
I did not know its mystery. 

My Polar Star was by my side, 

The star of hope was on my brow ; 

I 've lost them both beneath the tide — 
The cross alone is left me now. 



Not such as thou, sweet Thing of stars, 

Moving in queenly state on high, 
But wrought of stern, cold iron bars, 

And borne, ah me ! so wearily ! 

Yet something from those soft, warm skies 

Seems whispering, " Thou shall yet be blest I" 

And gazing in thy tender eyes, 

The symbol brightens on my breast. 

I read at last the mystery 

That slumbers in each starry gem ; 
The weary pathway to the sky — 

The iron cross— the diadem. 

Emily C. Judson 



PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 425 



Fer Facem ad Litcem, 



T DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be 
-^ A pleasant road ; 

[ do not ask that thou wouldst take from me 
Aught of its load : 



I do not ask that flowers should always spring 

Beneath my feet ; 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 

For one thing only. Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 

Lead me aright — 
Though strength should falter and though heart should 
bleed, — 

Through Peace to Light. 

I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed 

Full radiance here ; 
Give but a ray of peace that I may tread 

Without a fear. 

I do not ask my cross to understand. 

My way to see ; 
Better in darkness just to feel thy hand, 

And follow thee. 

Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine 

Like quiet night ; 
Lead me O Lord — till perfect day shall shine — 

Through Peace to Light. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



»26 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 



"Follow TJtou Mer 

O WHERE shall we follow thee, Saviour beloved? 
To Kedron, where oft thou hast thoughtfully roved? 
Each rill of enjoyment that winds through our care, 
Is Kedron, if thou wilt but walk with us there. 

O where shall we follow thee, Jesus our friend ? 
To Bethany, whither thy feet loved to tend ? 
Our fireside is Bethany, peaceful and blest ; 
And ne'er will we wander, with thee for a guest. 

O where shall we follow thee. Master adored ? 
To the Beautiful City, that knew not her Lord? 
Alas for our streets full of evil and pain ! 
Toil with us for cities wept over in vain ! 

O where shall we follow thee. Leader divine ? 
To Tabor, where thou in white glory didst shine ? 
Thy face in the sin-sick and weary we see. 
When Love is the Tabor we stand on with thee. 

O where shall we follow thee, tenderest Guide ? 
To the sweet mournful garden down Olivet's side ? 
Ah, here is Gethsemane — here where we mourn : 
Here strengthen us, thou who our sorrow hast borne ! 

O where shall we follow thee, dear Lamb of God ? 

Up Golgotha's death-steep, for us meekly trod ? 

The thorns pierce our temples ; the cross bears us down ; 

Like thine make our Calvary garland our crown ! 

O where shall we follow thee, conquering Lord? 
To Paradise, unto us outcasts restored ? 
'T is Paradise, Lord, in thy presence to be : 
And, living or dying, we 're ever with thee ! 

Lucv Larcom. 



ENTICED. 427 



'Enticed. 
I. 

WITH what clear guile of gracious love enticed, 
I follow forward, as from room to room, 
Through doors that open into light from gloom, 
To find and lose, and find again the Christ ! 

He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door; 
Without he stands, and asks to enter in : 
Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin ? 

Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more ? 

He knows what ways I take to shut my heart, 

And if he will he can himself undo 

My foolish fastenings, or by force break through. 
Nor wait till I fulfill my needless part. 

But nay, he will not choose to enter so, — 
He will not be my guest without consent, 
Nor, though I say " Come in," is he content; 

I must arise and ope, or he will go. 

He shall not go ; I do arise and ope, — 

" Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me, 
Oh, blessed guest, and let me sup with thee," — 

Where is the door ? for in this dark I grope, 

And cannot find it soon enough ; my hand, 
Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need, 
And trembles, shaken with its eager heed; 

No other key will answer my demand. 

The door between is some command undone; 
Obedience is the key that slides the bar. 
And lets him in, who stands so near, so far ; 

The doors are many, but the key is one. 



4^8 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know; 
Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice— 
Oh, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice, 

Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go. 



Full lief and soon this door would open too. 
If once my key might find the narrow slit 
Which, being so narrow, is so hard to hit — 

But lo ! one little ray that glimmers through, 

Not spreading light, but lighting to the light — 
Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow. 
One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so, — 

How small, how great, the change from dark to bright I 



II. 

Now he is here I seem no longer here ! 

This place of light is not my chamber dim, 

It is not he with me, but I with him. 
And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer, 

I was borne onward at his greeting, — he 

Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gonej 
Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn. 

Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me ! 

I lie upon the bosom of my Lord, 

And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby; 

The tune so sweet, I have no need to try. 
But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord. 

A little while I lie upon his heart. 

Feasting on love, and loving there to feast, 
And then, once more, the shadows are increased 

Around me, and I feel my Lord depart. 



THE ROSE. 

Again alone, but in a farther place 

I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign ; 

Again I hear the same sweet plea divine, 
And suit, outside, of hospitable grace. 

This is his guile, — he makes me act the host 
To shelter him, and lo ! he shelters me ; 
Asking for alms, he summons me to be 

A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost. 

So, on and on, through many an opening door 

That gladly opens to the key I bring, 

From brightening court to court of Christ, my King, 
Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore. 

At last I trust these changing scenes will cease ; 

There is a court I hear where he abides ; 

No door beyond, that further glory hides. — 
My host at home, all change is changed to peace. 

William C. Wilkinson. 



4^9 



G^ 



The Rose. 

'O, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and lue, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that 's young. 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 



130 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come/orth — 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee, — 
How small a part of Time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

Edmund Waller. 



Yet though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise 

To teach the maid 
That goodness time's rude hand defies, 
That virtue lives when beauty dies. 

Henry Kirke White. 

[This latter stanza was written by Kirke White on the margin of a borrowed 
rolome of Waller's poems.] 



Tinder the Violets. 

T T ER hands are cold, her face is white ; 

■'■ -'- No more her pulses come and go ; 

Her eyes are shut to life and light : 
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone. 
To plead for tears with alien eyes; 

A slender cross of wood alone 

Shall say that here a maiden lies, 
In peace, oeneath the peaceful skies. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 431 

And c:ray old trees of hugest limb 

Shall wheel their circling shadows round, 

To make the scorching sunlight dim 

That drinks the greenness from the ground. 
And drop the dead leaves on her mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, 
And through their leaves the robins call. 

And ripening in the autumn sun 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 

For her the morning choir shall sing 

Its matins from the branches high ; 
And every minstrel voice of spring, 

That thrills beneath the April sky, 

Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial track. 
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, 

Her-little mourners clad in black, 

The crickets, sliding through the gras». 
Shall pipe to her an evening mass. 

At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 
And bear the buried dust they seize 

In leaves and blossoms to the skies ; 

So may the soul that warmed it rise 1 

If any, born of kindlier blood, 

Should ask: What maiden sleeps below? 

Say only this : A tender bud. 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 

Oliver W. Holmes. 



432 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Desiderium. 

IN MEMORIAM W. W. A. 

THE shattered water plashes down the ledge; 
The long ledge slants and bends between its walls. 
And shoots the current over many an edge 

Of shelvy rock, in thin and foamy falls, — 
With the same streaming light and numerous sound, 
As when his musing way he duly hither wound. 

Up by this path along the streamlet's brink, 

Into the cool ravine his footsteps wore; 
That was in other days— I bow and think 

In sadness of the wealthy days of yore, 
The fair far days, so wholly gone away. 
When love, and hope, and youth before us boundless lay. 

He was a kind of genius of the glen. 

The soul of sunshine in its heart of gloom ; 

Nature's great mansion, wide to other men. 
Here for the gentlest guest reserved a room. 

Where she, in secret from the general throng, 

Welcomed him fleeing oft, and cheered him lingering long. 

But hospitable Nature seeks him now. 

Through her wide halls or cloistered celb in vain ; 

The wistful face, the early-wrinkled brow, 

The peace that touched and purified the pain, 

The slender form, dilate with noble thought, 

The woman's welcoming smile for all fair things he brought; 

The light, quick step, elastic but not strong. 

Alert with springing spirit and tempered nei-ve — 

Type of the heart direct that sped along 
Swiftly where duty led, and did not swerve 

For count of odds, or dread of earthly loss, 

Buoyf"d with the costliest strength to bear the heaviest cross; 



OUR BABY. 433 

These tokens of that gracious presence here, 

O Nature, you and I together mourn ; 
But you and I, O Nature, have our cheer 

Concerning him, that helps our loss be borne — 
You mould his dust to keepsake grass and flower, 
What warmed his dust moulds me to forms of finer power. 

William C. Wilkinson. 



Our Baby, 

WHEN the morning, half in shadow. 
Ran along the hill and meadow, 
And with milk-white fingers parted 
Crimson roses, golden-hearted; 
Opening over ruins hoary 
Every purple morning-glory, 
And outshaking from the bushes ^ 

Singing larks and pleasant thrushes; 
That's the time our little baby. 
Strayed from Paradise, it may be, 
Came with eyes like heaven above her 
Oh we could not choose but love her t 

Not enough of earth for sinning, 

Always gentle, always winning. 

Never needing our reproving, 

Ever lively, ever loving ; 

Starry eyes and sunset tresses, 

White arms, made for light caresses, 

Lips, that knew no word of doubting, 

Often kissing, never pouting ; 

Beauty even in completeness. 

Overfull of childish sweetness ; 

That 's the way our little baby. 

Far too pure for earth, it may be, 

Seemed *.^ cs, who while about her 

Deemed we could -not. do without her."'/' 



434 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

When the morning, half in shadow. 
Ran along the hill and meadow. 
And with milk-white fingers parted 
Crimson roses, golden hearted ; 
Opening over ruins hoary 
Every purple morning-glory, 
And outshaking from the bushes 
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes; 
That's the time our little baby, 
Pining here for heaven, it may be, 
Turning from our bitter weeping, 
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping. 
And her white hands on her bosom 
Folded like a summer blossom. 

Now the litter she doth lie on. 
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion ; 
Go, as past a pleasant meadow. 
Through the valley of the shadow ; 
Take her softly, holy angels, 
Past the ranks of God's evangels; 
Past the saints and martyrs holy 
To the Earth-born, meek and lowly. 
We would have our precious blossom 
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom. 

Phcebf Gary. 



N 



Tfie River Path. 

O bird-song floated down the hill. 
The tangled bank below was stili; 



No rustle from the birchen stem, 
No ripple from the water's hem. 

The dusk of twilight round us grew, 
We felt the falling of the dew ■ „, 



THE RIVER PATH. 435 

For, from us ere the day was done, 
The wooded hills shut out the sun. 

But on the river's farther side, 
We saw the hill-tops glorified, — 

A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
A dream of day without its glare. 

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom; 
With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; 

While dark, through willowy vistas seen. 
The river rolled in shade between. 

From out the darkness where we trod, 
We gazed upon those hills of God, 

Whose light seemed not of morn or sun ; 
We spake not, but our thought was one. 

We paused, as if from that bright shore 
Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; 

And stilled our beating hearts to hear 
Tlie voices lost to mortal ear ! 

Sudden our pathway turned from right ; 
The hills swung open to the light ; 

Through their green gates the sunshine showed, 
A long slant splendor downward flowed. 

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled : 
It bridged the shaded stream with gold: 

And, borne on piers of mist, allied 
The shadowy with the sunlit side ! 

*' So," prayed we, ** when our feet draw near 
The river dark with mortal fear, 



^3^ OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

"And the night cometh, chill with dew, 
O Father, let thy light break through 1 

" So let the hills of doubt divide, 
To bridge with faith the sunless tide 1 

" So let the eyes that fail on earth 
O'er thy eternal hills look forth : 

" And in thy beckoning angels know 
The dear ones whom we loved below !" 

John G. Whittier. 



The Golden Street. 

THE toil is very long and I am tired : 
Oh, Father, I am weary of the way I 
Give me that rest I have so long desired ; 
Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day, 
And let the fever of my world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

Tired, — very tired ! And I at times have seen. 
When the far pearly gates were open thrown 
For those who walked no more with me, the green 
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone 

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

When the gates open, and before they close — 
Sad hours but holy — I have watched the tide 
Whose living crystal there forever flows 
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed 

To think how long until my world-worn feet 
Piess the cool smoothness of the golden street 



REST. -137 

They shall not wander from that blessed way; 

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin, 
Nor any clouds in that eternal day 

Trouble them more who once have entered in ; 

But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

Thus the gates close and I behold no more, 
Though, as I walk, they open oftener now 
For those who leave me and go on before ; 
And I am lonely also while I bow 

And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 

Tired, very tired ! — but I will patient be, 
Nor will I murmur at the weary way : 
I. too shall walk beside the crystal sea, 

And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day, 

When thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet 
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
William O. Stoddard. 



Rest. 

Lines found nndor the pillow of a soldier who died iu hosiiital at P<at 
BoyaL 

I LAY me down to sleep, 
With little care 
Whether my waking find 
Me here, or there. 

A bowing, burdened head 

That only asks to rest, 
Unquestioning, upon 

A loving breast. 



438 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now; 
To march the weary march 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, 
Nor strong — all that is past; 

I am ready not to do 
At last, at last. 

My half-day's work is done, 
And this is all my part — 

I give a patient God 
My patient heart ; 

And grasp his banner still, 
Though all the blue be dim ; 

These stripes as well as stars 
Lead after him. 



Tlie Cloud. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; 
Long had I watched the glory moving on, 

O'er the still radiance of the lake below : 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, 

E'en in its very motion there was rest, 
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, 

Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. 

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, 
And by the bseath of mercy made to roll 

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven. 
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. 



THE BROOKLET. 439 



Tl%e Broohlet. 

SWEET brooklet, ever gliding, 
Now high the mountains riding, 
The lone vale now dividing, 

Whither away ? — 
'* With pilgrim course I flow. 
Or in summer's scorching glow. 
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow, 

N or stop, nor stay : 
For oh, by high behest. 
To a bright abode of rest, 
In my parent Ocean's breast, 

I hasten away !*' 

Many a dark morass, 
Many a craggy mass. 
Thy feeble force must pass-, 

Yet, yet delay ! — 
" Though the marsh be dire and deepi, 
Though the crag be stern and steep. 
On, on my course must sweep ; 

I may not ttay: 
For oh, be it east or west. 
To a home of glorious rest 
In the bright sea's boundless breast, 

I hasten away !" 

The warbling bowers beside thee. 
The laughing flowers that hide thee. 
With soft accord they chide thee,— 

Sweet brooklet, stay I 
**■ I taste of the fragrant flowers, 
I respond to the warbling bowers. 
And sweetly they charm the hours 

Of my winding way ; 



440 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

But ceaseless still in quest 
Of that everlasting rest 
In my parent's boundless breast, , 
I hasten away l'\ ^ 

Knowest thou that dread abyss ? 
Is it a scene of bliss ? 
Oh, rather cling to this, — 

Sweet brooklet, stay I 
" Oh, who shall fitly tell 
What wonders there may dwell? 
That world of mystery well 

May strike dismay : 
But I know 'tis my parent's breast ; 
There held I must needs be blest. 
And with joy to that promised rest 

I hasten away !" 

Sir Robert Grant 



The Seas are Quiet. 

T I "^HE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er ; 

So calm are we when passions are no more I 
For then we know how vain it was to boast 
Of fleeting things so certain to be lost. 

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
Concealed that emptiness which age descries : 
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed. 
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become 
As they draw near to their eternal home : 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view. 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Anonymous. 



MY AIN COUNTREE. 44 1 



My Ain Countree. 

r AM fai from my hame an' I 'm weary often whiles 
-*- For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's wel- 
come smiles ; 
I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see 
The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree. 

The earth is flecked wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay. 
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae ; 
But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me. 
When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. 

1 've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the 

King, 
To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring ; 
Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see 
" The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree. 

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair. 
But there they '11 never vex me, nor be remembered mair ; 
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee, 
When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree. 

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, 

I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast; 

For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like 

me, 
An' he carries them himself to his ain countree. 

He 's faithfu' that has promised, he '11 surely come again ; 
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; 
But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be 
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree. 

18 



442 O UR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. 

So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait, 
For the soun'ing o' his footsteps this side the gowden gate. 
God gie his grace to ilka ane wha Ustens noo to me, 
That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree. 

Anonymous. 



JYearer Home. 

ONE sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er — 
I'm nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever have been before : 

Nearer my Father's house, 

Where the many mansions be : 

Nearer the Great White Throne, 
Nearer the jasper sea : 

Nearer the bound of life. 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer wearing the crown I 

But lying darkly between. 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent unknown stream 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm ; 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
Let me feel as I would, when I stand 

On the shore of the river of Death, 



THE GENIUS OF DEA TH. 443 

Feel as I would, wlten my feet 

Are slipping over the brink ; 
For it rriay be I'm nearer home. 

Nearer now than I think. 

Phcebe Carv. 



The Genius of Death. 

WHAT is Death ? 't is to be free ! 
No more to love or hope or fear- 
To join the great equality : 
All alike are humbled here ! 
The mighty grave 
Wraps lord and slave : 
Nor pride nor poverty dares come 
Within that refuge house, the tomb I 



Spirit with the drooping wing, 

And the ever-weeping eye, 
Thou of all earth's kings art King I 
Empires at thy footstool lie ! 
Beneath thee strewed 
Their multitude 
Sink like waves upon the shore : 
Storms shall never rouse them more ! 



What 's the grandeur of the earth 

To the grandeur round thy throne ? 
Riches, glory, beauty, birth. 
To thy kingdom all have gone. 
Before thee stand 
The wondrous band, — 
Bards, heroes, sages, side by side. 
Who darkened nations when they died ! 



444 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Earth hath hosts ; but thou canst show 

Many a million for her one ; 
Through thy gates the mortal flow 
Has for countless years rolled on: 
Back from the tomb 
No step has come ; 
There fixed, till the last thunder's sound 
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound ! 

George Croly. 



J. Dirge. 

" "C* ARTH to earth, and dust to dust I" 
•■--' Here the evil and the just, 
Here the youthful and the old, 
Here the fearful and the bold, 
Here the matron and the maid, 
In one silent bed are laid ; 
Here the vassal and the king 
Side by side lie vvfithering ; 
Here the sword and sceptre rust — 
** Earth to earth, and dust to dust I" 

Age on age shall roll along 
O'er this pale and mighty throng; 
Those that wept them, they that weep. 
All shall with these sleepers sleep ; 
Brothers, sisters of the worm, — 
Summer's sun, or Winter's storm. 
Song of peace, or battle's roar 
Ne'er shall break their slumbers more ; 
Death shall keep his sullen trust — 
** Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" 

But a day is coming fast- 
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last I 



A DIRGE. 445 

It shall come in fear and wonder, 
Heralded by trump and thunder ; 
It shall come in strife and toil, 
It shall come in blood and spoil ; 
It shall come in empires' groans, 
Burning temples, ruined thrones ; 
Then Ambition, rue thy lust ! 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" 

Then shall come the judgment sign ; 
In the east the King shall shine. 
Flashing from heaven's golden gate — 
Thousands, thousands, round his stat"; — 
Spirits with the crown and plume ; 
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb ! 
Heaven shall open on thy sight, 
Earth be turned to living light — 
Kingdom of the ransomed just — 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust." 



Then thy mount, Jerusalem, 
Shall be gorgeous as a gem 1 
Then shall in the desert rise 
Fruits of more than Paradise ; 
Earth by angel feet be trod — 
One great garden of her God ! 
Till are dried the martyr's tears. 
Through a thousand glorious years ! 
Now in hope of him we trust — 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust." 

George Crol^ 



446 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Time and Eternity. 

"FT is not Time that flies; 
-'- 'Tis we, 'tis we are flying: 
It is not Life that dies ; 

*Tis we, 'tis we are dying. 
Time and Eternity are one ; 
Time is JEternity begun ; 
Life changes, yet without decay; 
'Tis we alone who pass away. 

It is not Truth that flies; 

'Tis we, 'tis we are flying : 
It is not Faith that dies ; 

'Tis we, 'tis we are dying. 
O ever-during faith and truth, 
Whose youth is age, whose age is youth! 
Twin stars of immortality, 
Ye cannot perish from our sky. 

It is not Hope that flies ; 

'Tis we, 'tis we are flying: 
It is not Love that dies ; 

'Tis we, 'tis we are dying. 
Twin streams, that have in heaven your birth, 
Ye glide in gentle joy through earth, 
We fade, like flowers beside you sown ; 
Ye are still flowing, flowing on. 

Yet we but die to live : 

It is from death we're flying: 
Forever lives our Life ; 

For us there is no dying. 
We die but as the Spring-bud dies, 
In Summer's golden glow to rise. 
These be our days of April bloom ; 
Our Summer is beyond the tomb. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



TN VIEW OF DEATH. 447 



As down in the Sunless Retreats, 

As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean 
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, 
So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion 
Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee, 
My God, silent to thee, — 
Pure, warm, silent to thee. 

As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, 
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, — 
So dark when I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, 
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee. 
My God, trembhng to thee, 
Pure, warm, trembling to thee. 

Thomas Moore. 



In View of Death. 

THE hour, the hour, the parting hour, 
That takes from this dark world its po ver, 
And lays at once the thorn and flower 

On the same withering bier, my soul I 
The hour that ends all earthly woes. 
And gives the wearied soul repose, — 
How soft, how sweet that last long close 
Of mortal hope and fear, my soul I 

How sweet, while on this broken lyre 

The melodies of time expire. 

To feel it strung with chords of fire 

To praise the Immortal One, my soul t 
And while our farewell tears we pour 
To those we leave on this cold shore, 
To teel that we shall weep no more. 

Nor dwell in heaven alone, my soul 1 



'J+8 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES, 

How sweet, while, waning fast away, 
The stars of this dim world decay, 
To hail, prophetic of the day. 

The golden dawn above, my soul 1 
To feel we only sleep to rise 
In sunnier lands and fairer skies, 
To bind again our broken ties 

In ever-living love, my soul ! 

The hour, the hour so pure and calm, 
That bathes the wounded soul in balm. 
And round the pale brow twines the palm 

Which shuns this wintry clime, my soul I 
The hour that draws o'er earth and all 
Its briers and blooms the mortal pall, — 
How soft, how sweet, that evening-fall 

Of fears, and grief, and time, my soul ! 

Anonymous. 



Tlie SouVs Passing. 

IT is ended! All is over! 
Lo ! the weeping mourners corner- 
Mother, father, friend, and lover — 
To the death-encumbered room. 
Lips are pressed to the blessed 
Lips that evermore are dumb. 

Take her faded hand in thine — 

Hand that no more answereth kindl/; 

See the eyes that wont to shine. 
Uttering love, now staring blindly 

Tender-hearted speech departed — 
Speech that echoed so divinely. 



THE SOUL'S PASSING. 449 

Runs no more the circling river, 

Warming, brightening every part ; 
There it slumbereth cold forever — 

No more merry leap and start ; 
No more flushing cheeks to blushing-i 

In its silent home, the heart. 



Hope not answer to your praying I 
Cold, responseless lies she there : 

Death, that ever will be slaying 
Something gentle, something fair. 

Came with numbers soft as slumbers- 
She is with him otherwhere ! 



Mother ! yes, you scarce would chide her 
Had you seen the form he bore. 

Heard the words he spoke beside hei, 
Tender as the look he wore, 

While he proved her how he loved her 
More than mother — ten times more I 



Earthly father ! weep not o'er her ! 

To another Father's breast, 
On the wings of love he bore her. 

To the kingdom of the blest. 
Where no weeping eyelids keeping, 

Dwells she now in perfect re§t. 



Friend ! he was a friend that found her 
Amid blessings poor and scant. 

With a wicked world around her, 
And within a heavenly want ; 

And supplied her, home to guide her. 
Wings for which the weary pant. 
18* 



fSo OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. 

Lover ! yes, she loved thee dearly ! 

When she left thee loved thee best I 
Love, she knew, alone burns clearly 

In the bosoms of the blest ; 
Love she bore thee, watches o'er thee, 

Is the angel in thy breast ! 



Mourners all ! have done with weeping t 

I will tell you what he said, 
When he came and found her sleeping; 

On her heart his hand he laid : — 
** Sleep is, maiden, sorrow-laden ; 

Peace dwells only with the dead. 



** Wend with me across the river. 
Seems so bitter, is so sweet ; 

On whose other shore forever 
Happy, holy spirits greet ; 

Grief all over, friend and lover 
In a sweet communion meet. 



** It is better, father, mother, 
Lover, friend, to leave behind; 

All their blessed loves and other, 
Come with me, and thou shalt find. 

Where thy spirit shall inherit 
Perfect love and perfect mind. 



**Love that is to mortals given 
Struggles with imperfect will; 

Love alone that homes in heaven 
Can its perfect self fulfill ; 

Where possessing every blessing, 
Still it grows and greatens still 1 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 45' 

" See, I bring thee wings to bear thee, 

To the blessed angel-home ; 
Dear ones dead forever near thee, 

From thy side no more to roam ; 
Love increased, wait, thou blessed, 

Till the living loved ones come ! 

" O'er the river !" Lo ! she faltered, 

While he took her by the hand ; 
And her blessed face grew altered 

As she heard the sweet command. 
Father ! lover ! all was over ! 

So she passed to Spirit-Land ! 

Charles H. Hitchings. 



The Dying Christian to his Soul. 

VITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, O quit, this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 
O the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper : angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul ! can this be death ? 

The world recedes — it disappears ; 

Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring; 

Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! 

O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 



452 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Farewell Life, Welcome Life, 

FAREWELL Life ! My senses swim. 
And the world is growing dim; 
Thronging shadows crowd the light, 
Like the advent of the night; 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the mould above the rose ! 



Welcome Life ! the spirit strives ! 
Strength returns, and hope revives ! 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn : 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom. 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould ! 

Thomas Hood, 



Life's " Good-Morning:' 

T IFE ! we've been long together, 

-■ — ' Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 

'T is hard to part when friends are dear ; 

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 

Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time; 
Say not Good-Night, but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good-Morning. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld. 



PALMS OF GLORY. 453 



Palms of Glory. 

PALMS of glory, raiment bright, 
Crowns that never fade away, 
Gird and deck the saints in light, 

Priests, and kings, and conquerors they. 
Yet the conquerors bring their palms 

To the Lamb amidst the throne ; 
And proclaim in joyful psalms, 
Victory through his cross alone ! 



Kings their crowns for harps resign, 

Crying as they strike the chords, 
"Take the kingdom — it is thine: 

King of kings, and Lord of lords !" 
Round the altar priests confess. 

If their robes are white as snow, 
'Twas the Saviour's righteousness, 

And his blood that made them so. 



Who were these ? — On earth they dwelt, 

Sinners once, of Adam's race ; 
Guilt, and fear, and suffering felt. 

But were saved from all by grace. 
They were mortal too, like us ; 

Ah ! when we like them shall die, 
May our souls, translated thus, 

Triumph, reign, and shine on high I 

James Montgomery. 



♦54 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



Heaven. 

BEYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,— 
Beyond death's cloudy portal — 
There is a land where beauty never dies, 
And love becomes immortal. 

A land whose light is never dimmed by shade,' 

Whose fields are ever vernal, 
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, 

But blooms for aye eternal. 

We may not know how sweet its balmy air. 

How bright and fair its flowers ; 
We may not hear the songs that echo there. 

Through those enchanted bowers. 

The city's shining towers we may not see, 

With our dim earthly vision : 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes those gates elysian. 

But sometimes, where adown the western sky 

The fiery sunset lingers, 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly. 

Unlocked by silent fingers : 

And while they stand a moment half ajar. 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream lightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal the story, 

O land unknown ! O land of love divine I 

Father all-wise, eternal. 
Guide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine 

Unto those pastures vernal. 

Nancy A. W. Priest. 



/ KNO W THO U HAST GONE. 45 5 



TlioiA, art gone to the Grave. 

THOU art gone to the grave — but we will not deplore 
thee; 
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, 
The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, 
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom. 

Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer behold thee, 
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee. 
And sinners may hope since the Sinless has died. 

Thou art gone to the grave — and its mansion forsaking, 
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long; 

But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking. 
And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song. 

Thou art gone to the grave — but 't were wrong to deplore 
thee, 
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide ; 
He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee. 
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. 

Bishop Heber. 



I know TJzoit hast Gone. 

I KNOW thou hast gone to the house of thy rest. 
Then why should my soul be so sad ? 
I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest, 

And the mourner looks up and is glad ! 
Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth, 

The stain it had gathered in this ; 
And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth, 
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss 1 



J56 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. - 

I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred 

With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul, 
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred, 

Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal ; 
I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows 

Through a land where they do not forget, 
That sheds over memory only repose, 

And takes from it only regret. 



In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 

I believe thou hast visions of mine. 
And the love that made all things a music to me 

I have not yet learnt to resign ; 
In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea 

Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
I have ever a presence that whispers of thee, 

And my spirit lies down and is still ! 

Mine eye must be dark, that so long has been dim. 

Ere again it may gaze upon thine : 
But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home. 

In many a token and sign ; 
I never look up with a vow to the sky, 

But a light like thy beauty is there — 
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 

When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 

I am wrapped in a mantle of care — 
Yet the grief of my bosom — oh, call it not gloom,— 

Is not the black grief of despair ; 
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 

Far off a bright vision appears, 
And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light. 

Is born, like the rainbow, in tears. 

.Thomas K. .H.ervey 



SfV FRIEND. 457 



My Friend, 



SIDE by side we are still, though a shadow 
Between us doth fall ; 
We are parted, yet are not parted, 
Not wholly and all. 



For still you are round and about me, 

Almost in my reach ; 
Though I miss the old pleasant communion 

Of smile and of speech. 

And I long to hear what you are seeing. 

And what you have done, 
Since the earth faded out from your vision. 

And the heavens begun ; 

Since you dropped off the darkening fillet 

Of clay from your sight, 
And opened your eyes upon glory 

Ineffably bright. 



Though little my life has accomplished, 
My poor hands have wrought, 

I have lived what seemed to be ages 
In feeling and thought 

Since the time when our path grew so narrow 

So near the unknown, 
That I turned back from following after, 

And you went on alone. 



458 OUR POETICAL FA /ORITES. 

For we speak of you cheerfully, always, 

As journeying on : 
Not as one who is dead do we name you — 

We say you are gone. 

For how could we speak of you sadly, 

We who watched while the grace 

Of eternity's wonderful beauty 
Grew over your face ? 

Do we call the star lost that is hidden 
In the great light of morn ? 

Do we fashion a shroud for the young child 
In the day it is born ? 

Yet behold ! this were wise to their folly 

Who mourn, sore distressed 
When a soul that is summoned believing 

Enters into its rest 1 

• • « « 

Phcebe Cauy, 



A Year in Heaven. 

A YEAR uncalendared ; for what 
Hast thou to do with mortal time ? 
Its dole of moments entereth not 

That circle, mystic and sublime. 
Whose unreached center is the throne 

Of Him, before whose awful brow 
Meeting eternities are known 

As but an everlasting now. 
The thought removes thee far away, — 

Too far, — beyond my love and tears ; 
Ah, let me hold thee as I may, 

And count thy time by earthly years I 



A YEAR IN H£A VEN. 459 

A year of blessedness ; wherein 

Not one dim cloud hath crossed thy soul; 
No sigh of grief, no touch of sin, 

No frail mortality's control : 
Nor once hath disappointment stung, 

Nor care world-weary made thee pine ; 
But rapture, such as human tongue 

Hath found no language for, is thine. 
Made perfect at thy passing, who 

Can sum thy added glory now ? 
As on, and onward, upward, through 

The angel ranks that lowly bow, 
Ascending still from height to height. 

Unfaltering, where rapt spirits trod. 
Nor pausing 'mid their circles bright, 

Thou tendest inward unto God. 

A year of progress in the lore 

That 's only learned in Heaven ; thy mind 
Unclogged of clay, and free to soar, 

Hath left the realms of doubt behind ; 
And wondrous things which finite thought 

In vain essayed to solve, appear 
To thy untasked inquiries, fraught 

With explanations strangely clear. 
Thy reason owns no forced control, 

As held it here in needful thrall : 
God's mysteries court thy questioning soul. 

And thou may'st search and know them alL 

A year of love ; thy yearning heart 

Was always tender, e'en to tears 
With sympathies, whose sacred art 

Made holy all thy cherished years ; 
But love, whose speechless ecstasy 

Had overborne the finite, now 
Throbs through thy being, pure and free, 

And burns upon thy radiant brow : 



46o OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

For thou those hands' dear clasp hast felt, 
Where still the nail-prints are displayed ; 

And thou before that face hast knelt, 

Which wears the scars the thorns have made. 

A year without thee ; I had thought 

My orphaned heart would break and die 
Ere time had meek quiescence brought, - 

Or soothed the tears it could not dry. 
And yet I live to faint and quail 

Before the human grief I bear; 
To miss thee so, then drown the wail 

That trembles on my lips in prayer ; 
Thou glorying, while I weakly pine ; 

Thou praising, while I vainly thrill ; 
And thus between thy heart and mine 

The distance ever widening still. 

A year of tears to me ; to thee. 

The end of thy probation's strife, 
The archway to eternity, 

The portal of immortal life : 
To me the pall, the bier, the sod ; 

To thee the palm of victory given. — 
Enough, my heart ! thank God ! thank God ! 

That thou hast been a year in Heaven. 

Anonymous 



A Year in Heaven. 

ONE year among the angels, beloved, thou hast been, 
One year has heaven's white portal shut back the 
sound of sin ; 
And yet no voice, no whisper, comes floating down frorr 

thee, 
To tell us what glad wonder a year of heaven may be. 



A YEAR IN HEAVEN. 461 

Our hearts before it listen, — the beautiful closed gate : 
The silence yearns around us : we listen and we wait. 
It is thy heavenly birthday, on earth thy lilies bloom ; 
In thine immortal garland canst find for these no room ? 



Thou lovedst all things lovely when walking with us here : 
Now from the heights of heaven seems earth no longer 

dear ? 
We cannot paint thee moving in white-robed state afar. 
Nor dream our flower of comfort a cool and distant star. 

Heaven is but life made richer ; therein can be no loss : 
To meet our love and longing thou hast no gulf to cross: 
No adamant between us uprears its rocky screen ; 
A veil before us only : — thou in the light serene. 

That veil 'twixt earth and heaven a breath might waft aside : 
We breathe one air, beloved, we follow one dear Guide : 
Passed into open vision, out of our mist and rain, 
Thou seest how sorrow blossoms, how peace is won from 
pain. 

And half we feel thee leaning from thy deep calm of bliss, 
To say of earth, "Beloved, how beautiful it is ! 
The lilies in this splendor, — the green leaves in this dew ; — 
O earth is also heaven, with God's light clothed anew !" 

So, when the sky seems bluer, and when the blossoms wear 
Some tender mystic shading we never knew was there, 
We '11 say " We see things earthly by light of sainted eyes : 
She bends where we are gazing, to-day, from paradise." 

Because we know thee near us and nearer still to Him 
Who fills thy cup of being with glory to the brim. 
We will not stain with grieving our fair, though fainter light, 
But cling to thee in spirit as if thou wert in sight. 



462 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

And as in waves of beauty the swift years come and go, 

Upon celestial currents cur deeper life shall flow, 

Hearing, from that sweet country where blighting nevei 

camo. 
Love chime the hours immortal, in earth and heaven the 

same. 

Lucy Larcom. 



A Little While. 

OFOR the peace which floweth as a river, 
Making life's desert places bloom and smile ! 
O for the faith to grasp heaven's bright " forever," 
Amid the shadows of earth's "little while !" 

A little while for patient vigil-keeping, 

To face the stern, to battle with the strong ; 

A little while to sow the seed with weeping, 

Then bind the sheaves and sing the harvest-song. 

A little while to wear the weeds of sadness. 
To pace with weary steps through noisy ways ; 

Then to pour forth the fragrant oil of gladness, 
And clasp the girdle round the robe of praise. 

A little while midst shadow and illusion 
To strive by faith love's mysteries to spell : 

Then read each dark enigma's bright solution, — 
Then hail sight's verdict, " He doth all things well" 

A little while the earthen pitcher taking 

To wayside brooks from far-off fountains fed ; 

Then the cool lip its thirst forever slaking 
Beside the fullness of the fountain-head. 

A little while to keep the oil from failing, 
A little while faith's flickering lamp to trim. 

And then, the Bridegroom's coming footsteps hailing, 
To haste to meet him with the bridal-hymn. 



WHAT THEN? ^6}. 

And he who is himself the Gift and Giver — 

The future glory and the present smile, 
With the bright promise of the glad forever 

Will light the shadows of the " little while." 

Jane Crewdson, 



What Then? 

WHAT then? Why, then another pilgrim song; 
And then a hush of rest, divinely granted; 
And then a thirsty stage (ah me, so long !) 

And then a brook, just where it most is wanted- 

What then ? The pitching of the evening tent ; 

And then, perchance, a pillow rough and thorny ; 
And then some sweet and tender message, sent 

To cheer the faint one for to-morrow's journey. 

What then ? The wailing of the midnight wind, 
A feverish sleep, a heart oppressed and aching; 

And then a little water-cruse to find 

Close by my pillow, ready for my waking. 

What then ? I am not careful to inquire ; 

1 know there will be tears, and fears, and sorrow ; 
And then, a loving Saviour drawing nigher, 

And saying " /will answer for the morrow." 

What then ? For all my sins, his pardoning grace ; 

For all my wants and woes, his loving-kindness ; 
For darkest shades, the shining of God's face, 

And Christ's own hand to lead me in my blindness. 

What then ? A shadowy valley, lone and dim ; 

And then, a deep and darkly rolling river ; 
And then a flood of light, a seraph's hymn. 

And God's own smile forever and forever 1 

Jane Crewdson. 



464 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 



The Lord will come. 

THE Lord will come ! the earth shall quake* 
The hills their fixed seat forsake ; 
And, withering from the vault of night. 
The stars withdraw their feeble light. . 

The Lord will come \ but not the same 

As once in lowly form he came, 

A silent lamb to slaughter led. 

The bruised, the suffering, and the dead. 

The Lord will come ! a dreadful form, 
With wreath of flame and robe of storm. 
On cherub wings, and wings of wind, 
Anointed Judge of human kind ! 

Can this be he who wont to stray, 

A pilgrim on the world's highway ; 

By power oppressed, and mocked by pride ? 

O God ! is this the Crucified ? 

Go, tyrants ! to the rocks complain ! 
Go, seek the mountain's cleft in vain ! 
But Faith, victorious o'er the tomb. 
Shall sing for joy — the Lord is come ! 

Bishop Hebek. 



Dies Irce, 

DIES \KM \ Dies Illa ! 
Solvet saeclum in favilla. 
Teste David cum Sibylla. 

Quantus tremor est futurus 
Quando Judex est venturus, 
Cuncta stricte discussurus \ 



DIES IRM. 465 

Tuba mirum spargens sonum 
Per scpulchra regionum, 
Coget omnes ante thronum. 

Mors stupebit et natura, 
Quum resurget creatura, 
Judicanti responsura. 

Liber scriptus proferetur. 
In quo totum continetur, 
Unde mundus judicetur. 

Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
Quidquid latet, apparebit ; 
Nil inultum remanebit. 

Quid sum, miser ! tunc dicturus. 
Quern patronum rogaturus, 
Quum vix Justus sit securus? 

Rex tremendas majestatis, 
Qui salvandos salvas gratis, 
Salva me, fons pietatis ! 

Recordare, Jesu pie, 
Quod sum causa tuae viae ; 
Ne me perdas ilia die ! 

Quaerens me, sedisti lassus, 
Redemisti, crucem passus : 
Tantus labor non sit cassus. 

Juste Judex ultionis, 
Donum fac remissionis 
Ante diem rationis. 

Ingemisco tanquam reus, 
Culpa rubet vultus meus : 
Supplicanti parce, Deus I 



466 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Qui Mariam absolvisti, 
Et latronem exaudisti, 
Mihi quoque spem dedisti. 

Preces meas non sunt dignae; 
Sed Tu bonus fac benigne 
Ne perenni cremer igne ! 

Inter oves locum praesta, 
Et ab haedis me sequestra, 
Statuens in parte dextra. 

Confutatis maledictis, 
Flammis acribus addictis, 
Voca me cum benedictis ! 

Ore supplex et acclinls, 
Cor contritum quasi cinis, 
Gere curam mei finis ! 

Lacrymosa dies ilia ! 
Qua resurget ex favilla 
Judicandus homo reus ; 
Huic ergo parce, Deus ! 

Thomas de CELANa 



Dies Irce. 

DAY of wrath ! That day of mourning 
Sees our earth to ashes turning; — 
Such the seer's and sibyl's warning. 

Ah ! the dread each bosom rendmg, 
When the Judge in flame descending, 
Shall his glance through all be sending ! 



DIES IR^. 467 

When the trumpet's blast appalling. 
Midst earth's charneled millions falling, 
All before the throne is calling ! 

Death's stern heart what fear surprises. 
As from dust creation rises 
To the last and great assizes I 

Opened are the awful pages, 
Where the record of all ages 
Man's eternal doom presages. 

When the Judge shall take his station, 
Full shall be the revelation. 
Naught escape his stern probation. 

What shall I, poor wretch, be pleading? 
Ask what patron's interceding, 
When the righteous help is needing? 

King of majesty tremendous. 
Who dost free salvation send us. 
Save me. Source of love stupendous ! 

Think, O Jesus, kind and tender ! 
Why thou leftst thy throne of splendor. 
Nor to death my soul surrender. 

Me thou sought'st with travail sorest; 
Crown of thorns for me thou worest; 
Be not vain the toil thou borest. 

Righteous Judge of dread decision. 
Freely grant my sin's remission, 
Ere the day of inquisition. 

Deep my guilty spirit sigheth ; 
Shame my cheek with crimson dyeth ; 
Spare the suppliant when he crieth 1 



«6g OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

Thou who Mary hast acquitted, 
And the robber's guilt remitted, 
Thou e'en me hast kindly pitied. 

Though my prayers can naught avail me. 
Yet let not thy goodness fail me. 
Lest the endless fire assail me. 

Midst thy sheep, O Saviour, hide me; 
From the goats afar divide me ; 
On thy right a place decide me. 

When thy wrath the accursed is brandinf^ 
And to fiercest flames commanding, 
Let me with the blest be standing. 

Lowly bowed in deep submission. 
Heart like ashes, all contrition. 
Care, I pray, for my condition. 

Ah ! that day so sad and tearful ! 
When, from dust arising fearful, 
Man in judgment stands before thee, 
Spare the culprit, Lord of glory ! 

A. C. Kendrick. 



Dies Irce. 

"r\AY of wrath! that day of burning, 
^-^ Seer and sibyl speak concerning. 
All the world to ashes turning ! 

Oh, what fear shall it engender, 

When the Judge shall come in splendor. 

Strict to mark and just to render 1 



DIES IR^. 469 

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, 
Rending sepulchers asunder, 
Shall resistless summons thunder. 

All aghast then Death shall shiver, 
And great Nature's frame shall quiver, 
When the graves their dead deliver. 

Book, where actions are recorded. 

All the ages have afforded, 

Shall be brought and dooms awarded. 

When shall sit the Judge unerring. 
He '11 unfold all here occurring, 
No just vengeance then deferring. 

What shall / say, that time pending ? 
Ask what advocate's befriending, 
When the just man needs defending? 

Dreadful King, all power possessing, 
Saving freely those confessing, 
Save thou me, O Fount of Blessing I 

Think, O Jesus, for what reason 

Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason, 

Nor me lose in that dread season ! 

Seeking me thy worn feet hasted ; 
On the cross thy soul death tasted, — 
Let such travail not be wasted I 

Righteous Judge of retribution ? 
Make me gift of absolution 
Ere that day of execution ! 

Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken. 
On my cheek shame's crimson token 1 
Let the pardoning wor 1 be spoken I 



47C OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. 

Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. 

Though my prayers be void of merit. 
What is needful, thou confer it. 
Lest I endless fire inherit ! 

Be then, Lord, my place decided 
With thy sheep, from goats divided. 
Kindly to thy right hand guided ! 

When the accursed away are driven, 

To eternal burnings given, 

Call me with the blessed to heaven I 

I beseech thee, prostrate lying. 
Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing. 
Care for me when I am dying ! 

Day of tears and late repentance ! 
Man shall rise to hear his sentence: 
Him, the child of guilt and error, 
Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! 

Abraham CoLEa. 



God. 

From the Russian. 

OTHOU eternal One ! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide; 
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight; 

Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 
Being above all beings ! Mighty One ! 

Whom none can comprehend and none explore; 
Who fiU'st existence with thyself alone ; 
Embracing all, — supporting, — ruling o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, — and know no more 1 



GOD. 47 T 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

r.Iay measure out the ocean-deep — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but God ! for thee 

There is no weight nor measure : — none can mount 
Up to thy mysteries ; Reason's brightest spark, 

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark : 

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high. 

Even like past moments in eternity. 



Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence; — Lord, in thee 
Eternity had its foundation ; — all 

Sprung forth from thee: — of light, joy, harmony 
Sole Origin : — all life, all beauty thine. 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious ! Great I 

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 



Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround: 
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath ! 

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death ! 

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze. 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee; 

And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 



A million torches lighted by thy hand 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss : 

They own thy power, accomplish thy command. 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss 



*72 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 

What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light — 
A glorious company of golden streams — 

Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright — 

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? 
But thou to these art as the noon to night. 



Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 
All this magnificence in thee is lost: — 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 
And what am I then ? — Heaven's unnumbered host, 

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against thy greatness, is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I then ? Naught 1 



Naught ! But the effluence of thy light divine, 

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; 
Yes ! in my spirit doth thy spirit shine 

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! but I live and on hope's pinions fly, 

Eager towards thy presence ; for in thee 
I live and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, 

E'en to the throne of thy divinity. 

I am, O God ! and surely thou must be ! 



Thou art ! directing, guiding all, thou art 1 
Direct my understanding then to thee ; 

Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 
Though but an atom midst immensity, 

Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand ! 
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 

On the last verge of moital being stand. 

Close to the realms where angels have their birthy 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land I 



GOD. 473 

The chain of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — deity ! 

I can command the lightning, and am dust 1 
A monarch and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived ? unknown ! this clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy; 

For from itself alone it could not be ! 

Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of life and good! 

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude 

Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its source — to thee — its author there. 

O thoughts ineffable ! O visions blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee. 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast. 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek thy presence — Being wise and good I 
Midst thy vast works adrhire, obey, adore ; 

And when the tongue is eloquent no more. 

The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

Gabriel Romanowitch Derzhavin. 

Translated by John Bowrimg. 

19* 



INDEX. 



A. 

PA OS 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound 83 

A cloud lay cradled near the setting eun 43S 

AfQictlon one day, as she harked to the roar '^19 

Again, how can she but immortal be ? 391 

Ah ! don't be sorrowful, darling 206 

A little river with its rock-laid banks 350 

All thoughts, all passions, all desires 114 

Among the beautiful pictures 24 1 

** And I could weep," the Oneida Chief 106 

And thou art dead, as young aud fiiir 173 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story) 1 4-^ 

And whence, then, came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise I 395 

And where is he ? Not by the side 316 

An empty sky, a world of heather 250 

An old man sat on a rock 245 

A poor wayfaring man of grief 372 

As down in the siiuless retreats of the ocean 447 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 13f, 

A soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers 74 

As rising on its purple wing 182 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 219 

As to the distant moon 127 

As yestermorn my years have flown away 387 

At midnight, in his guarded tent 53 

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still 274 

A year uncalendared ; for what ? 458 

B. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead IT.? 

Behold this ruin I 'tis a skull. 220 

Between the dark and the daylight 103 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star 214 

Beyond these chilling winds aud gloomy skies 454 

Bound upon the accursed tree 3G2 

Break, break, break 244 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning I 360 

Bright flag st yonder tapering mast 1 102 

Bright shadows of true rest I some shoots of blisse 394 

But who shall see the glorious day 41 



^76 INDEX. 

c. 

PAGB 

Careless seems the <?reat avenger ; history's pages but recora 283 

Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee 343 

Come, dear old comrade, you and I 211 

Come from my First — ay, come 99 

Come hither, thoa beautiful rover , 123 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning 131 

Come into the garden, Maud 128 

Come, take our boy, and we will go 196 

Come to me. dearest, I'm lonely without thee 132 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn 155 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas 346 

" Courage," he cried, and pointed toward the land 50 

Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear 296 

D. 

Daughter of Jove I relentless power 303 

Day of wrath 1 that day of burning 463 

Day of wrath! that day of mourning 466 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the East 68 

Dear Lilian, all I wished is won 141 

Dies Ine ! Dies Ilia ! 464 

Do not crouch to-day , and worship 256 

E, 

" Earth to earth, and dust to dust 1" 444 

Ere last year's moon had left the sky 101 

Ere the twilight bat wag flitting 145 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind 112 

Eyes, which can but ill define 236 

P. 

Fair sonl, created in the primal hour 377 

Fare thee well ! and if forever 203 

Farewell, life 1 my senses swim.... 452 

Father, I know that all my life 410 

Flow down, cold rivnlet, to the sea 18 

Flutes in the sunny air 44 

Friends of faces unknown, and a land 310 

From the eternal shadow rounding 403 

G. 

Give, as the morning that flows out of heaven 408 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 370 

"Give us a song 1" the soldiers cried 139 

r'v<aBt dsaVTOV / And is this the prince 201 

God of the thunder 1 from whose cloudy seat 38 

Go, forget me 1 why should sorrow 146 

Going, the great round sun 419 

Go, leave me, priest ; my soul would be 290 

Go, lovely rose 429 



INDEX. 477 

H. 

PAGE 

Hail, beauteous ptranger of the grove 1 16 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit I , 12 

Half a league, half a league 48 

Hark ! the I'aiiit bells of the sunken city 26.) 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 30 

Hear the sledges with the bells 276 

He came — a beauteous vision I 194 

He is gone on the mountain 33:^ 

Here once my step was quickened 341 

Here's the garden she walked across log 

Her hands are cold, her face is white 43C 

He who hath bent him o'er the dead 61 

High hopes that burn like stars sublime 234 

Hope of those that have none other 374 

How many now are detid to me 243 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits , 295 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps... . 420 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest 112 

I. 

I am far from my hame, an' I'm weary often whiles 441 

I arise from dreams of thee 122 

I asked the heavens : What foe to God hath done 363 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 7 

I cannot And thee ! St ill on restless pinion 401 

I cannot make him dead 306 

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be 425 

I do not own an inch of land 411 

If I had thought thou couldst have died .333 

I fill this cup to one made up 117 

If in the silence of this lonely eve .344 

If thou wert by my side, my love , 198 

I gazed down life's dim labyrinth 207 

I have ships that went to sea 416 

I know not whence it rises 77 

I know thou hast gone to the house of thy rest 455 

I lay me do >vn to sleep 437 

I leaned out of the window, I emelt the white clover 124 

I love (and have some cause to love) the earth 390 

I mourn no more my vanished years 351 

In all the land, range up, range down 137 

I never may believe 267 

In that home was joy and sorrow where an infant first drew breath 287 

In the greenest of our valleys 263 

In the silent midnight watches 376 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow lands 72 

I read how, in Gethsemane 369 

I saw her once — so freshly fair 231 

leaw him last on this terrace proud 92 



478 INDEX. 

PAes 

I saw him once before 209 

" Is it corne?" they said on the banks of the Nile 257 

1 sprang to the stirrup, and Joris", and he 73 

I thinlv that look of Christ might seem to say 379 

It is a place where poets crowced may feel the heart's decaying 383 

It is ended 1 all is over 1 448 

It was the calm and silent night I 357 

1 've wandered east, I 've wandered west 147 

I wandered by the brook side 121 

I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile 215 

J. 

Jast for a handful of silver he left us 113 

K, 

Knight, to love thee like a sister 170 

L. 

Leaves have their time to fall 314 

Life 1 we've been long together 452 

Light, everlastingly one, dwell above with the One Everlasting 10 

Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn 184 

Like a foundling in slumber, the suinoier-day lay 20 

Likeness of heaven 19 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 247 

"Live while you live I" the epicure would say 403 

Lochiel I Lochiel I beware of the day 86 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes 192 

M. 

Maiden! with the meek brown eyes. 222 

Many a year is in its grave 345 

Martha, thy maiden foot is still so light 404 

Maud Mulier, on a summer's day 166 

Methinks it is good to be here .'. ,V. 

Morn on the waters 1— and purple and bright 234 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold ... 264 

My ear-rings 1 my ear-rings ! they've dropped into the well 142 

My friend, thou sighest for thy golden prime 3S8 

My genial spirits fail 262 

My life is like the summer rose 293 

My love, my chosen — but not mine 1 I send 134 

My soul to-day 26 

Mysterious night 1 when our first parent knew 11 

N. 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made 330 

No bird-song floated down the hill 434 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note 84 

Not as all other women are 119 



INDEX. 479 



PAG» 

Nothing reptin;? in its own completeness 38J 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are 1 Sfl 

Nowl it is gone. Our brief hours travel fast 28J 

O. 

O'er way ward children wouldst thou hold firm rule 409 

Of all the myriad moods of mind 249 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 3;8 

O for the peace which floweth as a river 4G2 

Oft, in the stilly night 210 

Oh, blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers 98 

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease 266 

O, river far flowing 21 

Oh, that those lips had language 1 Life has passed 322 

Oh, weep for Moncontour ! Oh, weep for the hour 83 

O little feet! that such long years 288 

O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 

O Mary, go and call the cattle home 91 

Once, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary 279 

One more unfortunate 183 

One sweetly soleuiU thought 442 

One time 1 was alio wed to steer 289 

One year among the angels, beloved, thou hast been.. ,. , 46) 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child. 292 

On the door you will not enter 150 

O pale with want and still despair 233 

O Saviour, whose mercy, severe in its kindness .399 

O tliou eternal One! whose presence bright 470 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered 199 

Our Lord is risen from the dead StiS 

O where shall we follow thee, Saviour beloved 426 

P. 

Palms of glory, raiment bright 453 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin 373 

Pleasant arc Thy courts above 375 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth 398 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 3S0 

R. 

Rise np, rise np, Xari fa! lay the golden cushion down 180 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky 359 

River, river, little river 1 17 

Roll on, thou sun, forever roll I 29 

Room, gentle flowers I my child would pass to heaven 334 

S. 

Bavionr, when in dust to Thee 370 

See, where the crest of the long promontory 143 

Shall I fear, O earth, tliy bosom 48S 



i8o INDEX. 



PA08 

Bhe dwelt among the untrodden ways 2-37 

She stood breast-high amid the corn 118 

She walks in beauty like the night 86 

She was a phantom of delight 224 

Side- by side we are still, though a shadow 457 

Sin^' thi'm upon the sunny hills 2 

Sleep, love, sleep 205 

Slowly ravel, threads of doom 312 

Still thirteen years I 'tis Autumn, now 388 

Strive : yet do I not promise 381 

Sweet brooklet, ever gliding 439 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 296 

Sweet Empress of the Southern Sea 424 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 10 

T. 

Tell me not in mournful numbers 2G0 

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold 37 

The banners of the world are met upon that wild blue wave, — 46 

The breaking waves dashed high 101 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud 33 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 317 

The dawn went up the sky 3114 

The day is done, and the darkness 3 

The flags of war like storm-birds fly. 110 

The grave, it is deep and soundless 331 

The heath this night must be my bed 189 

The hour , the hour, the parting hour 447 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 1 57 

The lady she sits at her window 227 

The little gate was reached at last 338 

The Lord is my shepherd, no want shall I know .398 

The melanchuly days have come, the saddest of the year .34 

The muse, disgusted at an age and clime 105 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small. 293 

There is no flock, however well attended .304 

There sat an old man on a rock 245 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 268 

The scene was more beautiful far to my eye 32 

The seas are quiet when the winds are o'er 4^6 

The sea sings the song of the ages 258 

The shadows lay along Broadway 183 

The shattered water plashes down the ledge 432 

The spacious Armament on high 393 

The splendor falls on castle walls 5 

The time for toil has passed, and night has come 407 

The toil is very long, and I am tired 436 

The winds that once the Argo bore 34*; 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair 229 

This isle and bouse are mine, and I have vowed 1^ 



fXDEX. 481 

PARE 

This l9 the arsenal. From fljnr to ceiling lOfl 

This is the ship of pearl w'uicn poets feign 404 

This was the ruler of the iand 56 

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee 455 

Though the day of my destiny's over ... 200 

Thou still nnravished bride of quietness 1 67 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 284 

To bear, to nurse, to rear . . 190 

To claim the Arctic came the Sun 12 

Too late 1 stayed ; forgive the crime 126 

Two hands upon the breast 389 

Two seas amid the night 11 

Two voices are there — one is of the sea 95 

U, 

Unhappy White ! when life was in its spring 808 

Upon the white sea-sand 285 

V. 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying., 213 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 451 

W. 

We are growing old — how the thought will rise 885 

We count the broken lyres that rest 1 

We watched her breathing through the night 317 

We were not many, we who stood 108 

We will not weep: for God is standing by ua 403 

What constitutes a State? 46 

What is death? 'tis to be free 443 

What might it be that glance could paint ? 379 

What saith the past to thee? Weep I 353 

What shall I do with all the days and hours ? 127 

What then ? Why, then another pilgrim song 463 

What was 't awakened first the untuned ear? 275 

When another life is added 217 

Whene'er I recollect the happy time 136 

When first I met thee, warm and young 178 

When from the heart where Sorrow sits 236 

When gathering clouds around I view 400 

When Qod at first made man 383 

When I consider how my life is spent 295 

When I do count the clock that tells the time 294 

When Israel, o<' the Lord beloved 36 

When I was born 261 

IVhen marshaled on the nightly plain 361 

When on my bed the moonlight falls 242 

When on my car your loss was knelled 308 

When the British warrior-queen 85 

When the hours of day are aumbered 347 



482 INDEX. 

PASB 

^lien the rooming, half in shadow 433 

When the radiant morn of creation broke 5 

When the uneasy waves of life Buhside 238 

Where are the swallows fled ? 413 

While His tory's Muse the memorial was keeping 97 

Why should we faint and fear to live alone ? 384 

Wild sparkling rage inflamed the Father's eyes 374 

Within the sober realms of leafless trees 413 

Withoat haste I without rest 1 408 

With what clear gnile of gracions love enticed 1 437 

Y, 

Ye banks and braes, and streams aroond 177 

Ye mariners of England 94 

Ye nymphs of Solyma t begin the song 354 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor 34C 

Yes, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling, 40 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild 60 

ret once more, O ye Laurels, and once more 297 

You ask me why, though ill at ease IOC 

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace .. *31 



